


you're so naive

by whiry



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adorable Georgie Denbrough, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Ben Hanscom Loves Beverly Marsh, Ben Hanscom is a Good Friend, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Beverly Marsh Knows Everything, Beverly Marsh Loves Ben Hanscom, Beverly Marsh is a Good Friend, Bill Denbrough is a Good Friend, Blood and Violence, But it's not explicitly stated, Drinking to Cope, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier Bickering, Eddie Kaspbrak Has ADHD, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Little Shit, Epic Friendship, Everybody Lives, Everyone Loves Mike Hanlon, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, For the most part, Friends to Lovers, Gay Panic, Georgie Denbrough Lives, Good Parent Maggie Tozier, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Henry Bowers Being an Asshole, Homophobic Language, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Matchmaker Beverly Marsh, Mentioned Sonia Kaspbrak, Mike Hanlon Deserves Nice Things, Mike Hanlon Isn't Homeschooled, Mike Hanlon is a Good Friend, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Minor Mike Hanlon/Original Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Musician Richie Tozier, Oblivious Richie Tozier, POV Richie Tozier, Panic Attacks, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Richie Tozier Being a Dumbass, Richie Tozier Being an Asshole, Richie Tozier Has ADHD, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier Will Not Shut Up, Richie Tozier is Bad at Feelings, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Sassy Stanley Uris, Set in 1991, Soft Eddie Kaspbrak, Soft Richie Tozier, Spin the Bottle, Stanley Uris Has OCD, Stanley Uris is So Done, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, Thanksgiving, The power of friendship, Track Star Eddie Kaspbrak, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Using Music To Cope, as in he's big on music but doesn't play anything himself, ben hanscom plays football, but it's glossed over and not really talked about, but it's only mentioned sorry, but something close to it, even in his mind, everybody's a matchmaker, for bev and her dad, he knows what he wants ladies n gents, i wouldn't say ADHD necessarily, like so much gay panic, mike hanlon plays football, more than mentioned but she's not like absolutely awful in this story, not so oblivious eddie kaspbrak, not too gory but still, often in the form of song, so therefore she's just "mentioned", street fighter ii
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22037200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiry/pseuds/whiry
Summary: "It’s just that, for whatever unquantifiable or indistinguishable reason, high school just fucking sucks."or, the one where richie gets to his sophomore year, realizes some things about himself, falls in love, gets his ass kicked, and makes a mixtape, all with the help of his best friends, though not necessarily in that order.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough & Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Maggie Tozier & Richie Tozier, Maggie Tozier & Richie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier, Maggie Tozier/Wentworth Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Original Character(s), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier, The Losers Club & Richie Tozier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 165





	you're so naive

**Author's Note:**

> first of all, this has been an absolute monster that i have edited like 80 times and still don't love. but it's really important to me and tells a story that i needed to tell, so there's that.
> 
> second, let me say that as for warnings, there's: underage drinking, implied/referenced underage sex, underage smoking, people getting beat up that's not necessarily gory but definitely isn't not gory (y'know?), lots and lots of gay panic, panic attacks, homophobic slurs, people handling situations completely wrong, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it implied reference to childhood sexual abuse, and more, so be prepared early on.
> 
> third, this was beta'd by my sister and the lovely just-me-4-me.tumblr.com. check him out! otherwise, all mistakes are my own! let me know if something needs fixing!
> 
> fourth, story title comes from "naive" by the kooks, which came out in 2006 but i like the line so i used it as the title rather than in the story. that being said, i reference, like, a bunch of playlists in this story. if y'all want any of them, most of them are fleshed out and half created and i'd happily drop the playlists for you!
> 
> fifth, the story takes place in 1991, but i literally forgot the characters from the movie were supposed to be born in like 1976 and would therefore be 15 when the story takes place, instead of 16, so pretend they were born in 1975 or just, like, close your eyes for literally every single '91 reference i make because there's a lot. i'm so sorry. i really should've researched better lol

Richie always thought high school was going to be some magical and special place where everything in his life would just go right. He used to dream about it when he was younger, in middle school, thinking, _If I can just get to high school, if I can just make it a few more years, if I can just hold out a little longer_. Middle school sucks for everybody, that’s kind of a given, and Richie just wasn’t too keen on suffering through it any longer.

But then he gets to high school.

And he’s always been smart—like, literally, if it wasn’t for all the attention problems, he could easily make the honor roll, maybe even be top 10% of his class—so it’s not like the classes and whatever are hard. And the people are mainly nice, meaning they’re all so distracted by their own issues that they hardly pay him attention unless they’re laughing at one of his jokes or rolling their eyes at his antics. And the teachers are tolerable, though they immediately dismiss him into the role of class clown and ignore anything somewhat intelligible that he tries to say.

But it’s not any of that that’s the problem.

It’s just that, for whatever unquantifiable or indistinguishable reason, high school just fucking sucks.

+++

Freshman year, though a little rough, had mainly been a breeze. Richie surfed by in all his classes, made jokes where he could, and took naps whenever he got bored of doing work. But now it’s the first day of sophomore year and he’s finally sixteen, and this is what he’s been waiting for. His dad took him to get his license as soon as he possibly could, handing down his somewhat beat up red ’89 Jaguar XJS, his prized possession, when Richie passed the test. He didn’t cry, but there were some manly sniffles of gratitude. So he personalizes it the best he can without getting in too much trouble for “ruining her”: fuzzy dice in the mirror, beaded seat covers, a furry steering wheel cover. He thinks it completes the car perfectly, makes it his baby too.

Eddie does not agree.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he complains, sinking into the beads. He fights against them for a moment in an effort to get comfortable. “It’s like a thousand tiny fucking daggers in my back.”

“You’re just jealous,” Richie chirps, shifting gears. He’s decided to pick Eddie up for school every morning (much to Sonia’s bereavement), but now he’s kind of regretting it. “Are you always going to complain this much?”

“So long as you have these fucking—” He fights a little more against the beads, letting out a little growl-groan thing that doesn’t really work for him because of his stature “—bead things.”

“They make her look _cool_ ,” he explains, gesturing to her dashboard. He still hasn’t decided on a name, but he’s been leaning toward, like, Christine or Carrie or something rad like that.

“It looks _douchey_ ,” Eddie counters, finally giving up and huffing as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against his seat. The one constant from middle school—and further back—is Eddie. Well, and the rest of the Losers. But always Eddie.

They’ve known each other since the beginning, not as long as him and Bill, admittedly, but he and Stan appeared around the same time and while Bill latched onto Stan, Richie latched onto Eddie. The others came after.

So, yeah, he’s always got Eddie. And he’s so grateful for it. He doesn’t know what he’d do without his best friend’s constant complaining and frenzied speeches on the merits of personal hygiene and vaccinations, and the various ways they’re all gonna die.

“Touché,” he replies, although he’s not entirely sure what it means. He’ll look it up eventually.

Eddie just rolls his eyes and huffs again, leaning over to turn up whatever mixtape’s stuck in the cassette player. There’s so many of them now, most having fallen into the footwell or crammed into the glove compartment, each with a different name scribbled across them, some with his friends’ names, too, filled with songs that remind him of them whenever he’s feeling particularly reminiscent or they’re hanging out or something.

He doesn’t have one for Eddie, though. For some reason, those feelings always felt a little too personal, like an emotion he can’t quite name but doesn’t want to think about.

Nirvana starts blasting through the speakers. Eddie does his whole eye roll thing again—and, _seriously_ , one of these days they’re literally going to roll out of his head—but Richie knows that he secretly loves them, and that 90% of his attitude is a front, him pretending that he doesn’t give a shit when, in fact, he probably cares the most.

Richie can read him like that, always been able to.

“You don’t like Kurt Cobain?” Richie asks incredulously. A game they play: him pretending to not notice what Eddie actually likes and Eddie pretending to not like much of anything.

“He’s so emotional and _loud_ ,” Eddie complains, waving a hand. “All his lyrics are so dark.”

“He’s in emotional pain.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Eddie laughs. “Like I couldn’t tell that from the everything about him.”

Richie huffs. “You’re just jealous you can’t write bangers like Cobain.”

“Oh, sure.”

“You like all that Cyndi Lauper and NKOTB and whatever.”

“First of all, don’t let Ben hear you knock NKOTB. Or Bev, for that matter, she’ll kick your ass.” Richie laughs. “Second, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with Cyndi Lauper. She’s one of the greatest artists of our time.”

“Oh, definitely, like Madonna!”

“She’s the Queen of Pop, _Richie_. What more could you ask for?”

Richie laughs loudly and turns the radio up a bit louder. Eddie doesn’t even complain this time, instead shooting a small grin Richie’s way.

+++

They approach the Losers’ meeting spot under the North staircase, Richie listening to Eddie’s rant about those new mobile phones and why they’re such a problem, no doubt most of his material coming from what he’s heard from Sonia.

“And apparently they’re launching in the U.S. soon. You know, there’s no way that kind of radiation can be good for you.”

Richie laughs. “Who said that, your mom?”

Eddie glares. “NPR, jackass.”

Richie laughs louder.

“Huh-hey, guys,” Bill greets, smiling at them as they approach. Over the years, he’s started to become more confident and lose the stutter more and more, but it always comes out whenever he’s nervous or passionate about something, and the first day always makes him nervous.

“Big Bill,” Richie says in lieu of a greeting. He waves half-assed at the others. “And Losers.”

“Trashmouth,” Stan says, more like an insult than a nickname, but Richie just grins with pride instead.

“And proud of it.”

Him and Stan are best friends too, not as close as him and Eddie or him and Bill, but, like he said before, it’s always been the four of them against the world. No matter what dumb shit Richie says, he can always count on Stan to not take any of it that seriously, and to instead support him and have his back 100% of the time.

“Hey, Richie,” Bev purrs and sidles up to his side, moving from her spot between Mike and Ben, casually flicking a lighter. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Hey, Bevvie.” Richie slings an arm over her shoulder. Their relationship is kind of like a brother-sister thing, except they’re also almost the same person: both a little crude, a little cruel, and loads of wild and crazy fun. Bev’s more subdued, sure, but when she and Richie get together, her craziest sides really come out. Bill, when Richie and Bev first met, thought they would end up together or something, but it’s never been like that, not to Richie. Bev’s beautiful and he gets why everyone (see Bill and Ben) has a crush on her, but he could never be with her like that. It’d be like dating himself, or something, and while that’s great and all, it just wouldn’t work.

“Hey guys,” Eddie greets, dropping his bogus mobile phone shtick. Richie is sure, though, that he’ll get to hear more of that later on.

Mike smiles at him, and he’s always been sweet on Eddie. Well, he’s always been sweet on everybody, really, even Richie, even when he’s being an asshole. Ben, too, for that matter. They’re just nice guys. Richie’s kind of worried that the only asshole out of the bunch is him. Well, and Eddie, of course, but he kind of doesn’t count, since he’s only an asshole because Richie is.

“Didn’t crash in a fiery explosion on the way here?” Stan asks, quirking an eyebrow. Richie sneers at him. Okay, maybe Stan’s a bit of an asshole, too.

“Yeah, with Richie’s driving,” Bev snickers. Yeah, Richie shouldn’t forget about Bev either.

“Oh, _ha-ha_. No, we didn’t, dickwads, but thanks for the concern.” Stan shrugs an uninterested shoulder. Bev looks undeterred.

“I’m just still surprised your dad gave you the Jag,” Mike says. “I mean, my grandfather never would’ve given me a car, let alone a Jaguar.”

“I think he’s trying to relive high school vicariously through me, though I can’t imagine I’ll be a football player like he was.”

“I thought your dad was smart,” Bev teases, a smile playing on her lips. “I mean, a smart football player? Doesn’t sound real.”

“Well, Benny Boy’s about to prove you wrong, Bevvie. He’s trying out for the football, isn’t that right, Haystack?”

Bev raises an eyebrow and turns to look at Ben. He blushes and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Since they first met, about two or three years ago now, he’s been slowly losing weight and becoming healthier. It’s almost gross how much healthy shit he puts into his body, but he joined track team last year and now he’s only slightly overweight, but the kind where, if he was on the football team, it wouldn’t even matter because it’d turn into muscle mass in about a week. Not that it matters anyway; the chubby cheeks totally suit him.

“Yeah, I mean, I’ve thought about it,” Ben admits. Bev smiles.

“We’ll be there at practice then,” she decides, squeezing Richie’s side. “Isn’t that right, boys?”

The other Losers give a collective agreement. Everyone’s kind of noticed how Beverly and Ben float around each other, how they have ever since the Poem Incident, where Bill admitted he had no idea who wrote the poem that Bev loved so much and that it definitely wasn’t him. She later, logically, concluded it was Ben, and they’ve been slowly orbiting each other since. It’s nauseating, but Richie’s kind of happy for them.

“Yeah, I was thinking about joining the football team, too,” Mike admits. Bev claps her hands together, pulling slightly away from Richie in order to do so.

“That’s a great idea, Mike! You guys would be so good!”

“Yuh-yeah, that sow-sounds really cool,” Bill agrees. Stan and Eddie nod along.

“Is anyone else pulling out any hidden talents this year?” Richie asks. He looks at Eddie and points. “Eds?”

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie slaps his hand away. “But, actually, I’ve thought about maybe trying out for the track team.”

“Track? But what about your asthma?” Stan asks. Richie rolls his eyes.

“He doesn’t have asthma,” he declares. Eddie glares at him, but they both know that he’s right. It’s just another one of Sonia’s bullshit excuses. Richie knows that Eddie actually likes to run, that he’s actually good at running, and fast too, and that he’d join the team if he had the chance. And Sonia’s becoming lenient in her old age; at least, she doesn’t keep an ankle monitor on Eddie whenever he leaves the house. So if he’s genuine about trying out for the track team, he could do it: sneaking out of the house for meets, making up extra studying sessions in order to go to practices. Richie would back him up too, and he’s sure Eddie knows that.

“Your mom, then,” Stan says, throwing a tiny glare toward Richie. Eddie drops Richie’s gaze and turns back to Stan, shrugging.

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Richie whistles lowly and moves close to Eddie, dropping his arm around Bev and instead throwing one around Eddie, who makes a face at the contact. “Who is this new kid and what has he done with my sweet Eddie Bear?”

“Beep-beep, asshole,” Eddie groans, shoving him away. Richie goes without much complaint.

“I th-think this is gonna be a new-new year for all of us,” Bill declares. Richie’s always admired his whole knight-in-shining-armor complex he’s got going on. It’s cute, the way he tries to brave it up for everybody else, tries to be positive, even when he’s nervous.

Richie nods emphatically. “For sure! I mean, think of all the hot babes I can bag this year! New pussy galore!”

“Beep-beep, Richie,” Stan and Bev say together, although their tones are wildly different. Richie just rolls his eyes and throws his arms back around Eddie and Bev, pulling them close to him.

“Really, though, I’ve got a great feeling about this year!”

And he kind of speaks too soon.

+++

It starts with Henry Bowers, because when does it not.

They’re maybe a week into the school year when Richie hears Henry’s ugly chortle, the sound dangerous and echoey. It’s the end of the day, and Richie knows he should just go to his car and pick some dumb mixtape that’ll make Eddie laugh when he arrives. He knows that’s what he _should_ do. But he’s spent years under the thumb of Henry Bowers and his gang, and it almost pains him to think that some little loser just like him is getting beaten up right now, with no one to come rescue him.

So he follows the sound.

It comes from the boys’ locker room, which is a _really good sign_ , no sarcasm here. He braces himself and steps in, glancing down each row of lockers as he goes. But he doesn’t really need to, because he hears the laughter coming from the end row, near the showers.

He can’t actually hear water running, but he’s pretty sure that whatever sucker the Bowers Gang trapped is probably nude or in his skivvies. Now he really feels bad for the poor dude.

He hears Bowers’ laugh again.

“That’s what you are, isn’t it? A fucking fag. I see the way you look at me. You want it, don’t you? That’s fucking disgusting!”

A blow lands, and the boys start laughing harder. Someone groans and the sound makes Richie’s blood turn to ice, because _he knows that groan_.

He runs the last few rows, catching himself on the last locker and using it to propel himself around the side. He nearly runs into Belch Huggins, the hulking mass of a guy leaning down, balanced on the balls of his feet, and staring at a writhing Eddie on the ground, a small pool of blood forming underneath his wet nose. He’s clothed, though, thank God.

Henry looks up, an eyebrow raised. His grin turns manic when he sees Richie, eyes widening in delight.

“Oh-ho! You didn’t tell us your _boyfriend_ was coming to save you, Wheezy!” Henry kicks out at Eddie again, who tries to hold back a groan and looks up at Richie. He shakes his head in warning. The lower half of his face is smeared with blood, all dark red and swiped at, like Eddie tried to wipe it away.

“Let him go, Bowers,” Richie says with a confidence he does not feel.

Henry laughs. “Or what? You two losers gonna hurt me?” He fake cowers, putting his hands up by his chest in mock fear. “I’m sh-sh-shaking in my boots, _Fuckface_.”

“You remember the apocalyptic rock fight three Julys ago. You remember when we kicked your fucking ass. We’ll do it again, all of us. We’re not afraid of you, Bowers.”

Henry laughs. “That right?” He shrugs a shoulder. “Seems your girlfriend’s a little afraid of me, at least.” He tries to make another kick at Eddie, but Richie launches forward and tackles him. They hit one of the benches, Henry’s head making a cracking noise, before they topple over the bench and onto the floor. Henry curses and shoves at Richie, but Richie starts in on him. He gets a few hits in, too, before Vic and Patrick are pulling him off and throwing him down on the floor next to Eddie.

“Fucking freak!” Henry shrieks, clambering to his feet. Richie ignores him to look over at Eddie, who’s breathing hard, but staring back at him with wide eyes, in a _What did you just do?_ sort of way. He shrugs a shoulder back at Eddie. _Saved your ass_ , he tries to say back. Eddie lets out a tiny scoff and Richie grins. Good, he got it.

“You’re gonna fucking pay for that!” Henry is on top of him now, gripping his shirt in one hand, the other coming down in rapid succession, landing square hits every time. The three other boys are laughing again, gathered around in a circle, just watching. Richie hopes they don’t break his glasses; his mom will be pretty mad if he comes home blind again.

But then Henry is being pulled off of him and the other boys are stumbling back, hanging their heads, and someone is strictly reprimanding them. It’s Mr. Douglas, their P.E. teacher, and he’s 6’4” of muscle and anger, and he doesn’t tolerate any of the shit that the Bowers Gang tries to pull. He’s the coach of the track team, actually, which is just their luck.

He turns his back on the Bowers Gang to kneel down beside Richie, glancing over at Eddie.

“Are you boys alright?”

Richie wants to say, _No, my fucking face hurts and I think I’m bleeding and Eds is definitely bleeding and I kind of just want to go curl up and die right now_. But Mr. Douglas is nice, and he means well, so he just swallows and weakly nods his head.

“We’ll be fine.”

He gets how this looks: Richie and Eddie were doing something scandalous in the boys’ locker room after school and the Bowers Gang stumbled in on them and started beating them up in the name of protecting the school from homosexuals, or whatever. That’s probably how Mr. Douglas will see it, probably what he’ll tell the principal. Richie prays this doesn’t ruin Eddie’s chances of being on the track team; he knows how much he was looking forward to that.

But, “Get yourselves to the nurse,” is all Mr. Douglas says before he’s standing again and hauling Henry away, the other boys following like a weird and sad train.

Richie blinks and slowly lowers his head back down to the floor. He brings a hand up to feel at his glasses. He can see pretty well right now and he doesn’t feel any cracks, so he thinks he’ll be okay. That would’ve been his fourth pair just this summer. Besides that, mostly his jaw and mouth and a little bit of his nose hurt. He feels that area too and, yep, there’s some blood there. There’ll definitely be bruising, too.

He looks over at Eddie, who’s forehead is directly on the locker room floor, and he’s just sucking in shallow breaths. That’s how Richie knows Eddie’s hurt, though; he’d never let his forehead touch a floor this dirty if he wasn’t seriously injured.

“Can you stand?” He rasps, turning onto his side. His torso kind of hurts too, and he’s not too sure when that happened.

Eddie nods, curling his hands into fists and pushing them against the floor to slowly push himself up and onto his knees, still leaning a lot of his weight forward on his fists. His eyes are closed, have been this whole time.

“Are you okay?” Richie asks. He knows Eddie’s not, not really, because Eddie seems a little shaken up, and not just physically.

“I’m okay,” Eddie replies, voice a little small. He finally opens his eyes and turns his head in Richie’s direction. There’s some blood on his forehead from where it was resting on the floor, in the pool of his own blood. Richie thinks he probably shouldn’t tell him that, though, because it’s Eddie and Eddie’ll just freak the fuck out.

There’s also blood trailing down his neck, staining the collar of his shirt. That’ll definitely freak Eddie out. Sonia, too, if they don’t get that out before Eddie goes home.

Richie nods, though, and pushes himself up as well, wincing a little as he straightens. Maybe he hit his ribs when he tackled Henry, he’s not too sure, but there’s definitely an uncomfortable strain around his upper chest or right side area—he can’t identify the source. He takes a deep breath, expanding his chest to see just how much pain he’s in. It’s bearable, but he’ll be sore for a bit.

“Looks like no strenuous exercise for me, Dr. K,” Richie jokes, rubbing absently at his side. He’s pretty sure that’s where the pain is coming from. He winces a little when he hits a tender spot, but then laughs and glances up at Eddie, who’s looking very conflicted, or maybe angry, though Richie’s not sure why. “What?”

“Why did you do that?” Eddie demands, eyes boring into Richie’s. It’s so intense he has to look away, but he can still feel Eddie’s gaze on him, pinning him, even as he focuses on the lockers on the far wall. There’s words written faintly on one of them, old faded slurs, like no amount of water and soap could wash away the ink and the hate.

“Do what, Eds?” Maybe playing dumb’s a good idea.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Eddie snaps. “And you know what, jackass. Why’d you intervene? Why the fuck did you try to fight Bowers by yourself?”

Richie snorts and looks back at Eddie, who’s still sitting back on his calves, hands on his thighs, bloody face and all. He looks utterly ridiculous.

“Well, someone had to teach Bowers a lesson.”

“You didn’t teach him a lesson, you got your ass handed to you—”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Eds.”

“—and what you did—don’t call me that!—was incredibly reckless and idiotic! What if Mr. Douglas hadn’t showed up?!”

“What if _I_ hadn’t showed up?!” Richie shouts back at Eddie, matching his growing volume. “Huh?! What if I wasn’t here? What would they have done? God, with the amount of repressed homosexual urges between Patrick and Henry alone…” He shakes his head, voice dropping down now. “Jesus, Eddie, they—they could have hurt you. Like, seriously hurt you. How could I—?” He cuts himself off, shaking his head again. He collects himself. “How could I have lived with myself if they had hurt you?”

Eddie is staring at him, unmoving. He does that for a long while, long enough that Richie starts to shift and nervously tuck hair behind his ear. It’s been getting long now. He’s been growing it out for the past couple of years, and it’s starting to get curly and reach long enough that he might be able to use one of Bev’s scrunchies and tie it up. He wonders how he’d look like that. Maybe like one of those cool rockers from his childhood; that’s what he’s been going for, anyway.

“It’s not your job to protect me, Richie. Contrary to popular belief, I can take care of myself,” Eddie says at last. Richie shakes his head.

“I know that better than anyone. But you shouldn’t have to. You should be—you should have someone that’ll look out for you.”

He feels, bizarrely, like an exposed nerve, or maybe like he’s said a bit too much about himself, but he’s not quite sure in what way. Eddie understands, though, or at least he must, because he still has this kind of weird look on his face like he’s starting to understand something.

Richie wonders what that is.

“‘Repressed homosexual urges’?” Eddie questions out of nowhere. “Didn’t know that Patrick or Henry swung that way.”

Richie rolls his eyes, grateful for the change in topic. “Puh-lease. Patty’s a total weirdo that probably gets off with anything that moves—”

“What, like you?” Eddie quips. Richie sneers at him in response, but his heart feels a little lighter now.

“And _Henry’s_ totally done shit with Patrick before. And enjoyed it.”

“Done shit?”

“Yeah, Bevvie said she saw Patrick giving Henry a handy, and Henry was totally into it, moanin’, groanin’, beggin’ for more.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Well, anyway, he liked it. That’s what I know.”

Eddie considers this and shrugs, reaching out for the bench Richie toppled Henry over, for some balance to stand, reaching another hand toward Richie. Richie stands as well, grabbing Eddie’s hand and feeling only a little nauseous, though he’s not sure if it’s the movement or the touch.

He reluctantly lets go of Eddie’s hand when they’re both on their feet.

“Well, thanks, I guess,” Eddie says. Richie huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Spaghetti,” Richie warns. Now Eddie rolls his eyes.

“I’d be in a worse position if it wasn’t for you. So, thanks.”

Richie glances back down at the pool of blood on the floor. It’s kind of smeared everywhere, and there’s some blood on a couple of the lockers and the bench, too, like Eddie tried to grab something or maybe support himself when Henry and his cronies started in on him. Richie forces himself to look away and clears his throat. He doesn’t even wanna ask how it happened, how the Bowers Gang found him, what they said or did to him before Richie arrived. Richie thinks he’d probably go hunt them down on his own if he heard all that.

Eddie is smiling softly at him.

“I’m always here for you, Eds.”

Eddie scoffs and shakes his head, looking away.

“Way to ruin the moment, Rich.” Richie throws his hands up because how did _that_ ruin the moment? “C’mon, let’s go. I need to shower at least twice before I go home,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t tell Richie not to call him Eds. Richie sees it as a win.

“Sonia doesn’t like the man funk? That’s funny, because that’s not what she said last ni—”

“Beep-beep, asshole!”

+++

By some miracle, Sonia doesn’t find out. Richie takes Eddie to his house, because both his parents are at work, and they each take turns in the shower (Eddie really taking two showers because he’s that kind of person). Richie steals some of his mom’s makeup and though the color doesn’t really match, they put the makeup over the bruises and bandage the cuts. It doesn’t look that bad, not as bad as it felt, probably. Richie also lends Eddie one of his smaller sweaters from middle school, which fits Eddie like a glove and effectively hides all the wounds that aren’t on his face and the blood stain on his shirt, ’least till he can get to a washing machine.

Eddie plays it safe for a few weeks while everything heals, and Richie lies and tells his parents that he tripped. They both get looks, yeah, but no one outright questions anything. Except the Losers.

“I was defending Eddie’s honor, my poor damsel in distress,” Richie chirped when they asked. Eddie had punched him in the shoulder and shoved at him and called him an asshole, but he didn’t really mean any of it.

Then he explained that the Bowers Gang was behind it and everyone _ohhhh_ ’d and that was that.

And Henry doesn’t try anything else. He glares at Richie when they pass and throws slurs at him, but he’s not physical. And Mr. Douglas personally asks Eddie to join the track team when he hears that Eddie’s interested.

So, it’s not all that bad.

And something changes between Eddie and Richie. Not something big, necessarily, but there’s a difference now. Richie feels it in the small touches they share, when Eddie moves past him a little closer than he normally would, or when they’re shifting on the couch and their knees brush, or when they’re both reaching for something and their fingers touch and they just sort of hang there for a moment in the air before dropping away. He feels it in the lingering gazes, when Eddie looks back at him to catch his reaction, or when he smiles up at him for a second longer than strictly necessary, or when he rolls his eyes but then they immediately dart back to Richie. He feels it in the air he breathes, like they’re standing on the precipice of something dark and unknown, but it’s not that scary because Eddie’s there with him.

But he doesn’t mention it, because he doesn’t even know how to. He doesn’t know what it is, not really. And what he thinks it might be… Well, he doesn’t want to think about that.

So, he doesn’t. And it’s fine.

+++

September passes, and Nirvana releases a new album. Richie is so excited he thinks he might actually ralph. He waits in line at the record store, gives the old yellow-teethed man his $6—and, _Jesus_ , how much do they really expect him to pay, he’s not made of money—and all but speeds home to put the album on. He does, however, make a pit stop first.

“It’s just an album,” Eddie groans from the passenger seat, buckling up nonetheless. Richie pretends to choke in surprise.

“ _Just an album_?” He demands incredulously. “Eduardo, this could very well be the start of our lives!”

“Over an _album_?” Eddie looks at him dubiously. “Yeah, sure, okay.”

Richie chooses not to listen to him, instead turning up the stereo, happily drumming his hands on the steering wheel to the beat of _Africa._ He doesn’t normally like all that pop garbage that pretty much all his friends love, but there are a few songs that put him in a good mood. _Africa_ is one of the them.

They breeze upstairs and past his parents, who merely greet Eddie warmly and don’t bat an eye at Richie’s mania. They’re used to it by now; his friends are, too.

Richie shuts his door and haphazardly kicks dirty clothes and cassettes out of the way and under the bed. Eddie raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything, instead delicately sitting on the edge of Richie’s bed like he’s afraid to touch anything. Which is dumb because he’s been in Richie’s room thousands of times, surely, and it’s definitely looked worse then than it does right now.

Richie carefully takes the vinyl out of its fresh packaging, leaning forward and sniffing it loudly. Eddie makes a noise of disgust and appalment behind him.

“Smell that, Eds? That’s history in the making!”

“Don’t call me that. And why are you so pumped about this album? You’ve literally listened to hundreds—if not thousands—of other vinyls.”

“It’s _vinyl_ , you heathen, and you know how much I love Kurt Cobain. He’s, like, everything I’ve ever wanted to be in a person.” Richie moves to start putting the vinyl on.

“He’s so dark and broody, though. You’re much better than that,” Eddie dismisses with a wave of his hand. Richie’s movements stutter, but he quickly shakes it off. He sets everything up and puts the needle on, setting the vinyl cover on top of the stereo and backing up to sit beside Eddie on the bed.

“Well, I’ve been hearing that it’s killer.”

“Oh? And who have you heard that from? It literally released, what, like a couple days ago?”

“Y’know. People.”

“Sure, Rich.”

“Shut up and listen, wouldja?”

They listen to the needle hitting the grooves for another second before the guitar kicks in. Richie starts grinning immediately, headbanging when the drums follow suit. He just knows Eddie is rolling his eyes and shaking his head right now.

There’s nothing like listening to a new song for the first time, specifically ones that you automatically know are gonna grab you by the lapels and shake you to your core and make you listen up. There’s a feeling that accompanies it, a feeling like you’re being born for the first time, like everything behind you is just a daze and it’s in that moment that you discover your true self, who you were meant to be, who you want to be. It’s enlightening, bone-shaking, clarifying. It feels like flying.

Richie knows, just by listening to the first verse, that this is one of those songs.

By the time the chorus is kicking in for the second time, Richie is up on his feet and singing along to what he’s pretty sure the lyrics are. Eddie laughs at him.

“He does not say ‘ _acne stupid_ ,’” Eddie giggles. Richie rolls his eyes.

“He totally does! You’re harshing my mellow!”

“What the fuck does that even mean? Don’t ever say that to me again.”

Richie cackles.

They go through the angsty-ness of _In Bloom_ before they reach the more calm _Come As You Are_ , which has Eddie casually tapping his foot.

“Oh, one you like, yeah?”

Eddie shrugs. “It’s alright.”

“C’mon, then.” Richie extends a hand, swaying from side to side as he waits for Eddie. Eddie sighs, seemingly put upon, but takes Richie’s hand and starts swaying with him. Richie holds onto him, spinning him in circles and singing jumbled messes of what probably aren’t the lyrics to him.

“ _No, I don’t have a gum. No, I don’t have a gum_ ,” Richie sings loudly. Eddie laughs, throwing his head back.

“That’s not at all what he’s saying.”

“It totally is. You need to get your ears checked.”

He keeps spinning Eddie around as the song fades out. Eddie spins into him at the end, knocking them both back a little, but Richie stabilizes them, putting his free hand on Eddie’s bicep. And then they’re just standing there, staring at each other. Richie’s never noticed how many freckles Eddie actually has, all just splashed across his nose and cheeks like someone took a can of paint and literally threw it on the milky canvas that is Eddie’s face. He also feels like that’s a shitty way to describe Eddie, but that’s what he sees. Like an Rorschach test.

His eyes are this sort of honey brown, too, when he’s up this close. They normally just look like a dull dark brown, but right now they almost look like melted chocolate or something. He thinks that’s the best way he can describe them, ringed with these big, long lashes that probably belong on a girl. And his lips, too, those definitely belong on a girl, all pink and soft-looking and—

_Whoa-ho-ho_.

He’s not sure where that all came from, why he’s thinking that, or why _all_ his clothes feel a little tight now, but he tries to shake the thought away. That’s when he notices how close he and Eddie really are.

Honestly, if he’d swayed an inch more into Eddie’s personal bubble, he probably could’ve kissed him.

He shakes that thought away, too.

He steps back and lets go of Eddie at once. He’s not sure how much time has passed, but some slow song about Polly and crackers is playing. He clears his throat and hopes Eddie doesn’t notice how affected he is.

“S’a good song,” he says, awkwardly shoving his hands into his pockets, although… He probably shouldn’t draw any attention to his pants area right now. He takes his hands out and crosses his arms over his chest, looking down at his Converse, praying that was smooth enough so that Eddie won’t notice.

“Yeah,” Eddie says very softly. Richie chances a glance up. Eddie’s looking straight at him with this weird look on his face, one Richie doesn’t know how to decipher. He’s kind of getting tired of all this not-knowing.

Richie looks away and clears his throat, moving to sit on the bed again. He instinctively grabs his pack of cigarettes from the place in between the bed and the wall, hands just going through the motions as he lights one up with one of Bev’s lighters she bequeathed to him when he first started smoking about a year or two ago. He takes a long drag, blowing the smoke kind of in the direction of the window.

“Jesus, do you have to do that in here?” Eddie says, waving the air around him to dissipate the smoke. Or maybe the smell, considering how his nose is wrinkled up.

And the awkwardness passes, just like that. Richie laughs.

“It’s my room,” he reminds him.

“It’s _my_ lungs,” Eddie counters, moving back toward the desk that’s really used as more of a catchall than a desk. Richie rolls his eyes.

“Whatever, Spaghetti Head, gonna die eventually.”

“Jesus, yeah, but not within the next few minutes.”

Richie laughs again but stubs out the cigarette on the pack in his hands. He waves the extinguished cigarette around. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Eddie replies haughtily. He slowly moves back toward the bed, taking a seat beside Richie. It’s not right next to him, but it’s close enough that Richie’s sure he can feel the body heat radiating off Eddie.

“These songs would sound good on a mixtape,” Eddie says, and it kind of sounds like he’s hinting at something. Richie raises an eyebrow and looks at him.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eddie nods. “One of those shitty ones you like, with Pixies and Pink Floyd and those guys.” Eddie gestures to his poster for Ramones. Richie shrugs a shoulder.

“Not bad, Eds. Perhaps we should collaborate musically.”

Eddie huffs. “In your dreams.”

“You’re right, it will happen in my dreams. Right after your mom b—”

“Shut the fuck up, Richie.”

+++

Bev’s always been an interesting character. She’s this total sweetheart mixed in with a bit of assholery mixed in with total self-assuredness. Since she became friends with the Losers, and chopping off all her hair, she’s become pretty confident in herself. When her and Richie first met, she confided in him that her dad did some pretty nasty things to her. Richie offered to help her go to the police, absolutely floored that something like that was happening to someone like Beverly, that it could happen to someone in general, but Bev had just said no and that she’d figure out how to deal with it herself. And she did. She never said exactly what she did, but her dad hasn’t laid a hand on her since.

Now she’s all smiles and sparkly clear lip gloss and chain smoking when she gets anxious and out-drinking the guys when they get bold enough to steal from their parents’ liquor cabinets. She’s an enigma wrapped in a mystery, or whatever Sir Winston Churchill actually said, and one of the best people Richie’s ever met. He’s so fortunate that he knows her.

“So, Eddie.”

Well, usually.

He looks up from his bottle. Bev had smuggled some of her dad’s beer out for just the two of them, and now they’re sitting on some of the larger rocks at the Barrens, drinking and smoking while Richie occasionally reads this dumb book that Eddie suggested to him that actually isn’t all that bad, even though it’s about over a thousand pages long.

“Uh, what?”

Bev raises an eyebrow. “Eddie. Y’know, our Eddie? Or should I say _your_ Eddie?”

“ _My_ Eddie?” Richie raises his eyebrows in response. “Since when?”

“Oh, c’mon, Rich. You saved him from Bowers, took him on alone just to protect Eddie.”

“I would’ve done that for anyone. We all would’ve.”

Bev shrugs. “Maybe,” she concedes. “But we all don’t have lingering gazes.”

“Uh, that’s bullshit. Not only is there you and Ben, but Bill and Stan. Mike, Eds, and I are the only ones that aren’t affected by all that shit.”

Bev blushes but shakes her head. “ _That’s_ bullshit. You and Eddie are just as affected as the rest of us. And, apparently, just as oblivious. Though, Ben and I know about each other, and Bill and Stan are just now starting to figure it out. So it’s your guys’ turn.”

“There’s nothing to figure out, Bevvie. You’ve got it all wrong. All those nail polish fumes finally getting to your head, I’ll bet.”

“Shut up, and I only know what I see with my own eyes, Richie. You and Eddie have got it bad for each other. And you’d be fools to not do something about it.”

“I—Even if one of us felt something—not that we do—we… We couldn’t do anything.”

Bev’s eyebrows furrow before she makes an understanding face. “Richie, honey, none of us would ever say anything—”

“Not you guys, no. But everyone else?”

“Well, what about Stan and Bill, huh? They’re practically perfect for each other and you don’t see them getting any hate.”

“Because they’re so subtle about it. I’m me and Eddie’s Eddie. Even if we felt those feelings, which we don’t, we couldn’t be all subtle about it. We can’t play the ‘Just Friends’ card. We’re literally just friends right now and apparently everyone thinks that something’s going on!”

Bev flicks the ash off her cigarette and takes a long drag before she answers. Then she looks Richie dead in the eye, leaning forward. “Rich, if you or Eddie felt those feelings, whether it be for each other or someone else, none of us would ever judge you. I can’t say the same for everyone else, because you know that they fear what they don’t understand, and I can’t promise that it will ever be easy. But I have hope that one day it will be. That you two could walk down the streets and hold hands and it would be okay. And I know you’re scared to have that hope, or to think that _that_ might happen one day, but it’s okay. As long as you’re happy, it’s all going to be okay. And, like I said, no matter what, you have us. Always.”

Richie clenches his jaw and nods, breaking their eye contact to look down at his beer. “That’s a big promise, Bevvie.”

“Well, you know I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” He glances back up and she smiles. “It’ll get better, you know. I can only imagine how scary it must feel right now, but one day it won’t feel like that. Even if it’s just for a day. One day it won’t be that scary anymore.”

Richie nods, opting to chug his beer instead of answer her. He’s not even sure what to say. Leave it to Beverly Marsh to tell him it’s okay to feel a way he’s not even sure he feels and that she’ll accept him regardless of what he does. It’s a lot of emotions at once, and he doesn’t want to process any of them.

“Look,” he says finally, “if I ever get those feelings that you’re talkin’ about, I’ll let you know. Deal?” He sticks out his free hand.

Bev grins and shakes it. “Deal.”

+++

So Richie ignores whatever he thinks he feels and continues on with his life. Bowers is still pointedly ignoring him, which definitely means a storm is brewing, but he doesn’t focus on that, because he’s got so much more to worry about.

Mike and Ben make the football team, and they’re good, too. Richie’s not exactly sure what positions they play or what they’re called, but the team wins and the boys are on the field every game, so he’s pretty sure that means they’re good. Bev’s in the stands at every game, too, cheering them on with poster boards she makes everyone else make—and she’s such a fascist about that whole situation, it really makes Richie not even wanna go to the games. But Ben and Mike appreciate it, so it’s cool.

Mike gets a girlfriend, too. Her name’s Betsy, and, despite the ancient sounding name, she’s a total doll and really gets Mike, or whatever relationship bullshit Richie’s supposed to say. She’s hot, though, like crazy hot, but it doesn’t really do anything for Richie. He’s not sure why.

Bill and Stan start becoming a little more intimate, but only in private. They don’t kiss, not around the Losers, but they start holding hands and talking in low voices and Bill doesn’t really have a stutter when he’s around Stan. Richie’s not sure what that means either, but he’s happy for both of them nonetheless.

Eddie’s killer at track. Well, it’s actually cross country, but Richie doesn’t understand or care about the difference, so it’s track. Mr. Douglas compliments him all the time, tells him that he’s one of the fastest kids he’s ever seen. Eddie always beams with pride after practices and meets, lets Richie pull him into tight hugs, and laughs along with his new teammates. It’s like his calling, or something.

But nothing really changes, not between Eddie and him. He gets around to making that mixtape that Eddie was talking about, titles it _Spaghetti Head_ , and plays it on repeat for days after he records it. It’s not Eddie’s mixtape, but it’s something close to it. Richie’s, maybe.

Richie’s not sure he can make a mixtape for Eddie. Now that he’s made this one, he starts really thinking about it, but mixtapes have themes and feelings and they tell a story. Richie’s not sure he has a story to tell, and he’s definitely not sure what he feels about Eddie.

He puts it, like most of his other problems, on the back burner.

+++

Richie’s reclining in the hammock of the Clubhouse, minding his own business and having a smoke, when Eddie marches up to him.

“Shove over,” he demands, already trying to fit his tiny body into the even tinnier hammock. Richie makes a half-assed attempt to move over, but, really, the hammock is designed for kids, and now that they’re both getting taller and lankier, it’s hard to fit in there properly.

Eddie ends up half laying on Richie’s legs, and shoves his feet right in Richie’s face. Richie is reminded of when they were 13, and he feels just as homicidal now as he did then.

He swats at Eddie’s feet, and Eddie, the bastard, chuckles lightly, but moves them a little out of the way. Richie takes a drag and stares up at the wood ceiling, settling in.

“Bowers hasn’t tried anything,” Eddie says suddenly. Richie raises an eyebrow, but shrugs.

“Yeah, not for me neither. Not surprised, though. I assume Douglas chewed him up pretty good. Either Douglas or his dad.”

“He’d deserve either.”

“Sure.”

The other Losers are on the gross ass couch they managed to drag down into the Clubhouse when they were 14. Mike and Ben and Bev are working through some homework while Bill and Stan talk quietly and hold hands. They do that a lot now. Richie has no idea what they always talk about, but they talk a lot. Maybe if he had a boyfriend he would get it.

Not that he wants a boyfriend, necessarily. It might be cool to have one, but he’s not even sure that he swings that way and maybe he does, but that would mean Bev’s at least, like, half right about something and Bev being right about anything isn’t good for his health anyway. Also, he’s pretty sure he’s not. As in, he doesn’t swing that way. At least he doesn’t think so.

He’s spiraling, he can tell.

“I heard this really good song the other day,” Eddie says, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Made me think of you.”

Richie’s cheeks grow warm.

“Oh, yeah?” He starts to tease. A defense mechanism, no doubt. “Am I that special lady in your life?”

“Shut up. You’d like it, though. It was called, um, oh yeah, _In Between Days_ , I think, and I think it’s by—”

“Shut the fuck up. You’ve never heard _In Between Days_ before? It was released in, like, ’85!”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Obviously I’ve never heard it before, or else I wouldn’t’ve told you about it.”

“But you thought of me, though? _That_ song?”

Eddie furrows his brows. “Why? What’s it talking about?”

“No, nothing.” Richie’s cheeks heat up again.

“No, asshole, tell me.” Eddie’s feet find their way back into Richie’s space. Richie bats them away again and takes another drag.

“Jesus, fine. It just talks a bit about, like, living because of love and then dismissing that love and then realizing you can’t live without that love. That’s all.”

“Oh, that’s it, then?” Eddie teases.

“Yeah.”

Eddie rolls his eyes again. “I don’t know, I thought you’d like it. It’s catchy.”

Richie shrugs as best he can underneath Eddie’s legs. He wiggles the hand that got trapped underneath Eddie free, and places it on top of Eddie’s shins, taking another drag.

“It’s not bad,” he agrees. Again, not really his speed, but he can appreciate it when it comes on the radio.

Eddie stares at him, but there’s no real expression on his face. Richie’s not sure if he’s said something right or wrong, and it doesn’t seem like Eddie’s too keen on telling him.

“You should put it in a mixtape,” Eddie says at last. Richie raises an eyebrow, adjusts his glasses.

“A mixtape?”

“Sure. Another one of those angsty ones you like so much, no doubt.”

“They’re not angsty, Eduardo, they’re grunge. That’s the style.”

“Oh, sure, they’re grungy all right.”

Richie rolls his eyes, but then thinks of something and smiles. “As grungy as your mom’s underwear after—”

“Jesus Christ, Richie, shut the fuck up.”

And the awkwardness dissipates yet again.

+++

Richie’s pretty confident that Eddie’s hinting at something, because he’s mentioned mixtapes twice now when he usually never talks about them. Well, he doesn’t _never_ talk about them, but he doesn’t talk about them like, “ _Oh, Richie, light of my life, you should make a mixtape because you’re so awesome at it and everything you make sounds amazing!”_

So, yeah.

Probably something fishy going on.

’Cept Richie’s an idiot because he can’t figure out what Eddie is possibly talking about.

Oh well. He’ll figure it out eventually.

  
Probably.

+++

Richie’s always liked heights. It’s something none of the Losers understand, but he’s quite fond of them. Since he can remember, he’s always been the one climbing trees and lounging on the spreading branches and pulling everyone toward the Ferris Wheel and begging to go on rollercoasters. He’s always loved being up high, feeling like he’s flying, seeing the world like it’s for the first time. He can’t describe it, the rush he gets. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, knowing that he’s so high up that if he fell it would be all Bad News Bears. Regardless, he loves getting up as high as he can.

Luckily for him, his bedroom window opens to the roof, the part that covers the front porch. He has a bad habit of spending most of his time on the roof rather than in his own room. His parents know and don’t mind, so long as he stays closer to the window. And he never really strays, so it works.

He sits with his back pretty much against the window sill, Walkman in hand, listening to that new mixtape he made, _Spaghetti Head_. He’s smoking, which is a habit he still hasn’t broken, and honestly has no intention to break, and drinking one of his dad’s beers that tastes fucking nasty, but whatever. He won’t get drunk off it, and, yeah, it’s definitely too gross to just outright drink, but he likes to think he looks badass drinking it. And though he faces the street, none of the neighbors care about a 16-year-old kid smoking and drinking on the roof. That’s Derry for you.

He doesn’t notice a body dropping down next to him.

“Hey, Rich—”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Richie nearly topples over, spilling some of his beer and almost dropping his Walkman. He turns to see Eddie fighting back a smile. “What the fuck, Kaspbrak?” he demands, taking off his headphones and placing them around his neck.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t startle me, I fucking shit my pants!”

Eddie laughs now, looking so relaxed and at ease that some of Richie’s anger immediately disappears. The sun is just now setting, casting a golden haze over everything. Eddie’s eyes shine like… Like liquid gold or something, Richie doesn’t even know how to describe it. His face is lit up by all the light, and it only adds to his beauty.

Richie clears his throat and looks away.

“I just wanted to see what you were doing, I guess,” Eddie explains.

“How’d you sneak past my ’rents?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. “Please, they love me.”

_They do_ , Richie thinks. _They really do._ And they treat him like a second son, often jokingly expressing their wish to adopt him. Part of Richie thinks maybe they should.

He shakes himself again. He really needs to get a grip.

“Yeah,” Richie says in return. He takes a drag. He keeps finding himself smoking around Eddie, and even though Eddie hates the smell, he hasn’t complained all that much, at least not as much as Richie would expect. Which is totally unusual for Eddie.

He’s a complainer, just like Richie’s a Trashmouth. Not necessarily a bad thing, but definitely not something that everyone can handle. Richie thinks he can, though. Maybe Eddie handles him right back.

“You were bored?” Richie asks. He can’t stop thinking lately, and it’s getting really annoying.

“Yeah. I mean I finished all my homework and Bev’s hanging out with Ben and Mike’s out with Betsy and Stan and Bill are supposed to be together all day, so I figured I’d see if you were busy.”

Richie scoffs. “I was your last resort? Wow, that’s touching, Eds, really.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie shoots back immediately, a reflex, really. Then shrugs. “And you were my first choice, you always are.”

Richie’s whole body heats up and the blood starts rushing in his ears. His face feels like the fucking sun right now. And Eddie’s still talking.

“—But we always hang out and I guess I thought you’d be busy or didn’t want to see me or something.”

Richie furrows his eyebrows. “Didn’t want to see you? What are you talking about?”

Eddie shrugs, but he looks embarrassed. “I don’t know. We always hang out. I thought maybe you were getting tired of me.”

And that’s kind of unlike Eddie, to be insecure in their relationship. Richie knows that there are things Eddie is insecure about, just like anybody else, but the relationship that he and Eddie have has always been a constant. He wonders where Eddie’s insecurities are even coming from.

“Whoa, okay, um, I don’t know what I did or—or how I acted to make you think that, but that is so not the case, Spaghetti. You’re my best friend.”

The words are like vomit. Not revealing, thankfully, not really, but they still just rush out of him. Eddie glances at him and his face looks all weird. Richie’s not sure what emotion that is.

“Not Bill? Or Stan? Or Bev?”

“I mean, yeah, they’re my best friends, but, Eds, you’re my _best_ friend. What you and I have is different.”

Oh, and there it is, Richie Tozier sticking his big fat foot in his fucking mouth while simultaneously revealing more about himself than he meant to. But he can’t backtrack now, because Eddie’s look has just intensified and Richie has no idea what Eddie is feeling but apparently it’s good because now Eddie is smiling softly, in a way he never really does, and it makes Richie’s heart ache, which is just, _okay_ , wow.

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

Eddie’s still looking at Richie like Richie just told him something sweet and personal, which he kind of did, but Richie can’t really take the scrutiny. He tears his gaze away and takes a long drag, hoping it steadies his shaking hands. He blows it out away from Eddie and offers him some of the slowly warming beer, hoping to distract him.

He realizes, belatedly, that Eddie let him call him Eds again. That’s three times now—he didn’t realize the second one at the time, but he fondly reflected on it later that night—and Richie wonders if there’s a pattern there.

“Want some?”

Eddie raises an eyebrow, his expression finally— _finally_ —shifting. He looks dubious. Richie knows that Eddie has drank before, but typically light stuff like champagne or some of Stan’s favorite wine or whatever. Gross shit. He’s probably never had beer like this.

“Is it any good?”

Richie shrugs a shoulder, and Eddie’s hand closes around the can, fingers brushing over Richie’s. Richie pulls his hand away a little quicker than necessary.

“Yeah, actually, it kind of tastes like your mom’s—”

“Don’t even finish that fucking sentence,” Eddie warns, giving the can another dubious look before raising it to his lips. As soon as he starts to tilt the can back, he wretches it forward, spluttering and trying to spit what little beer he did get, out. “Ew! God, Richie, what the fuck?!”

Richie cackles, taking the can back before Eddie can dump it out over his head. Eddie, dramatic as ever, is now trying to wipe his tongue off without getting saliva on his hands or shirt. It’s so stupid and so _Eddie_ that it’s endearing. Richie laughs at him again.

“Didn’t like it?”

“Fuck you!” Eddie spits.

“Fuck you!” Richie teases back, knocking the can back and trying to drain as much of it as he can in one go. Eddie scoffs at him, shaking his head in disgust.

“I have no idea how you can drink that; it tastes like literal piss.”

“Oh-ho! And how would you know what piss tastes like, eh, Spaghetti Man?”

Eddie makes a face and shoves at Richie, who, again, nearly topples over. He kicks back at Eddie, who makes a half-hearted attempt to block it. They grin at each other, gazes lingering. Richie swallows and looks away again.

They both sort of sit in the silence for a couple minutes, Richie occasionally taking a drag, and finishing the last of the beer. He sets the empty can on the window sill for later. He notices Eddie, how he’s sitting there with his face tilted up toward the sun, like he’s embracing the warmth, at total peace with the world. Moments like that are rare for Eddie, who’s afraid of nearly everything and has anxiety so bad that it consumes him. He once told Richie that it’s hard for him to find calm and peace, that there’s a natural thrum of energy under his skin at all times, telling him either to run from the danger or stay put and hope it doesn’t find him. But here he is, at Richie’s side, quiet and still, not running or hiding, instead just existing. Richie thinks it’s a privilege to experience Eddie like this, and he’s lucky that he’s probably one of the only people in the world to see him how he truly is.

“What are you listening to?” Eddie asks after another couple minutes, finally turning to look at Richie. Richie’s been staring at him the whole time, only now blushing and turning away to look at his Walkman. His cigarette’s burned out.

“Oh, uh, that new mixtape I made, the one with _Nevermind_ on it.”

Eddie quirks an eyebrow. “You didn’t make one with _In Between Days_?”

“Not yet. I mean, I guess it kinda fits the theme of this mixtape, but I can’t add anything more, y’know? So I’ll put it on my next one.”

“What’s that one called?” Eddie points to the Walkman. There’s music still playing from the headphones, but Richie can’t even think of what song it is right now. He’s trying to think up a lie.

“Uh, it’s, _Long, Cold, Lonely Winter_ ,” Richie decides. Eddie loves The Beatles, but the reference may be obscure enough that he doesn’t get it, or rather that he does get it and just accepts that Richie’s a weirdo for mixing mediums or whatever.

Eddie’s brows furrow. “That’s a dumb name.”

Richie feels relief wash over him. “Hey, don’t mock genius. You know, in the face of adversity, my genius will only grow.”

“Oh, so then you must be a natural Albert Einstein by now.”

“Exactamundo, Eduardo. I’ll teach you all about relativity and Brownian motion.” Richie raises his eyebrows suggestively. “You know, like how certain particles are suspended in _fluid_.”

“I’m not even sure what joke you’re trying to make, but it’s not working and you’re fucking nasty.”

Richie laughs and shrugs, stubs out his cigarette even though it’s already gone out, just to be safe, and tosses it in the direction of the front yard. Eddie raises an eyebrow.

“You’re the type of asshole to start a forest fire.”

Richie rolls his eyes and stands, gesturing toward the window, pocketing his Walkman.

“C’mon, let’s go inside. I’m seriously concerned for your health, what with being surrounded by all this fresh air.”

“Har-har, asshole.” But he stands too, a little wobbly, and darts toward the window. Richie lets him go in first, teasing him about his obvious fear of heights as he does.

“Shut the fuck up, Richie. Some of us understand the danger of being on a roof without railing.”

“Oh, I understand the danger, I’m just prepared to die. Also, what kind of roof has railing?”

Eddie rolls his eyes and climbs in the window. Richie follows shortly after, making a show of falling into the room, but careful to avoid hitting his Walkman. It was his birthday present when he was 13; it means the absolute world to him.

“So are you going to show me that mixtape or what?” Eddie says, already standing by Richie’s dresser, where his stereo system and numerous cassette tapes sit, most used, though some still empty and waiting to be recorded over.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” He climbs to his feet and heads over to the dresser. He actually doesn’t really want to show Eddie this particular mixtape, because it feels more private, like it’s for him, like it’s something about himself that he’s not ready to share with the world. But it’s also Eddie and he shows slash tells Eddie everything, so.

Well, almost everything, anyway.

“Is it grunge, too? Or is it actual good music?” Eddie quips, brushing past Richie to take a spot on the bed. It reminds Richie of when they listened to _Nevermind_ for the first time together, which, really, was like a week or two ago. He tries not to think about what happened that day. Or rather, what almost happened.

“Please, you wouldn’t know good music if it bit you on your ass,” Richie teases. Then he turns and reaches out, pinching Eddie’s cheeks. “Or your face! Cute, cute, _cute_!”

Eddie bats his hand away, making a noise of disgust. “Don’t touch me until you’ve washed your hands! They smell like ash and piss!”

“Huh, that’s weird, because I only used this hand to jerk—”

“Beep-beep, Richie, please, God, spare me.”

Richie laughs and presses play. Ramones start coming through the speakers, loud enough that Richie can actually enjoy the music, but soft enough that his parents downstairs won’t get too mad.

“He wants to be sedated?” Eddie questions, gesturing toward the stereo after listening for a bit. “Jesus, is this really the shit you listen to?”

“You say that like you’ve never heard a) what I listen to and b) this song.”

“I don’t think I _have_ heard this song.”

“Bullshit! Wow, Eds, you really have the worst taste in music.”

“Shut up. At least I can understand what my artists are saying. All yours are mumbling and the actual music’s too loud to make out any of the lyrics.”

“That’s the style! It’s supposed to sound like that!”

Eddie snorts just as Ramones is finishing up. _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ starts pouring into the room, and Richie takes a seat beside Eddie on the bed, but a reasonable distance away. He’s not sure why—well, he thinks he knows now, as of today, but definitely doesn’t want to think about it—but he feels so clammy and nervous around Eddie right now.

He tries to lose himself in the music, smiling fondly as he remembers hearing this song for the first time. He turns to Eddie in time to sing, holding his fist in front of him like a microphone, “ _Acne stupid, and contagious/Here we are now, entertain us!_ ”

Eddie busts up laughing, and shakes his head. “It is not ‘ _acne stupid_!’ I’m pretty sure he’s saying, ‘ _I feel stupid_.’”

“Aw, Spaghetti,” Richie says, putting a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, “don’t feel stupid! I mean, after all, it’s just so hard to understand what he’s saying.”

Eddie shrugs him off and punches him weakly in the arm. “It is, dickwad! I mean, you should just listen to—”

“What, Dolly Parton?”

“ _9 to 5_ is a musical masterpiece! It’s so energetic and inspiringly relatable and—you know what? I’m wasting my breath on you.”

“Oh, no, no, please! Tell me all about Dolly and Cyndi and their eargasms they’ve thrusted upon you!”

“Earga—ugh, God, Rich, that’s disgusting!”

Richie grins as a new song starts up, this one a little different from all the other songs Richie has on his mixtape. Eddie’s brows pull together and he turns his head toward the stereo.

“What is this?”

Richie’s grin widens and he starts in with the lyrics, “ _This here’s a tale for all the fellas/Tryin’ do what those ladies tell us/Get shot down cause you over-zealous/Play hard to get, females get jealous!_ ”

Eddie starts grinning at his rapping. Richie gets to his feet and starts doing the dumbest dance moves he can think of. Eddie laughs now, clutching at his stomach as Richie keeps rapping. He gestures for Eddie to stand up, who shrugs and jumps up with him.

“ _If you want it, you got it/You want it, baby you got it (just bust a move)/You want it, you got it/You want it, baby you got it (Break it down for me, fellas)!_ ” Richie sings, doing a sort of Running Man with a weird head bop thing too. Eddie giggles and Vogues in response, which sends Richie into a fit of laughter as well.

They’re still laughing, and poorly dancing, when someone knocks on the door and peeks their head in. It’s his dad, who is holding the cordless phone in his hand, other hand covering the speaker.

“Sorry to interrupt, boys, but Sonia’s on the line for Eddie,” he says. Eddie’s smile fades and he sighs, but he thanks Richie’s dad and takes the phone, gesturing toward the hallway as he exits the room. Richie turns down the stereo anyway.

Went smiles at Richie, taking a cursory glance around the room on instinct. Then he tilts his head in the direction of the hallway, where Richie can hear Eddie speaking softly to his mother. Richie looks down at his sneakers, kind of feeling like he got caught with his pants down, so to speak.

“You boys having fun?” He asks.

“Yeah, Dad, loads.”

“Not too much, though, right?” Richie looks up at his dad now. Went smiles again, but it looks funky, like he’s thinking of something other than what he’s saying, or that he wants to say something but is refraining.

“Uh, yeah, right.”

“Because it’d be fine if you did, but I think your mother and I would like to know that kind of thing, you know? Not explicitly!” Went holds both hands up, like he’s warding something off. “But, you know, just a courtesy conversation. Just letting us know.”

“If Eddie and I are having too much fun?” Richie cocks his head to the side. Went looks slightly embarrassed.

“Yeah, um, if you have _too much fun_.”

“I don’t think I understand what you’re talking about.”

Went sighs. “Well, you will one day. And when you figure it out, just let us know, okay? Because we love you and we want to know all the updates of your life, kid.”

Richie smiles at his dad, confused, but grateful for the declaration nonetheless.

“I’ll let you know when I figure out what I don’t know, okay?”

Went huffs and rolls his eyes fondly. “Yeah, okay, kid.” Richie grins back.

Eddie clears his throat from behind Went, only just now appearing and holding the phone out to Went, who smiles at Eddie and takes it.

“Everything okay?” He asks. Eddie nods and gestures over his shoulder.

“I need to go home. My mom’s kind of losing it.”

“I’ll drive you,” Went says immediately, and then turns to look at Richie. He looks back at Eddie, and snaps his fingers. “Oh, shoot! I forgot that I have some, um, stuff to do for work.”

“You’re a dentist, what could you possibly have to do outside of the office?” Richie jokes, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have to go over patient files, Rich,” Went shoots back.

“Isn’t that some kind of breach to take those home?” Eddie asks.

“Oh, for the love of—Richie, why don’t you drive Eddie home, since you’re not going to do your homework anyway?”

“Ouch! I resent that! I was totally thinking about thinking about it!”

“Yeah, yeah. Take him home and make it back in time to do your work, okay?”

“Sure thing, Pops.” Richie turns the stereo off completely and grabs his keys, making shooing motions for Went and Eddie to move out of the doorway. They both go, Went throwing them one last look that Richie can’t really decipher, before telling them to stay safe and disappearing into his office.

Richie and Eddie make their way to the Jag, Richie rapping _Bust a Move_ under his breath as he goes, making Eddie giggle and mumble some of the words back to him. They climb in the car and Richie gestures toward the spilling cassettes, starting the car and backing out of the driveway.

“Take your pick, Edward Spaghedward,” Richie says. Eddie makes a face.

“God, really? Your nicknames keep getting worse and worse, I swear.” But he leans down and starts sifting through the various mixtapes at his feet. “Really, you oughtta clean this car. I’m genuinely surprised half these cassettes haven’t been crushed yet.”

“They’re resilient. Besides, I plan to clean.”

“When? When you wreck it because these damn tapes slid underneath your brake pedal?” Richie huffs and Eddie rolls his eyes back. “Why don’t you switch to CDs, anyway? I mean, you can’t with the car, but your stereo system works with both, doesn’t it?”

Richie scoffs, placing a hand on his chest like he’s offended. “I cannot believe you just said that to me! How dare you!”

“Oh, please! You’re the one who’s all behind on modern life.”

“There’s beauty in holding onto the little things of the past, Eds! Like how I treasure your mom and the way she—”

“Don’t finish that sentence! And don’t call me that!”

Richie laughs as Eddie shoves a cassette into the player. _Please Don’t Go Girl_ starts playing and Eddie grins while Richie groans.

“Oh, God, you found Ben’s mix?! I thought I destroyed that tape!”

“It’s called _Are You Tough Enough_ with seven exclamation points in various colors and some squiggles and some spirals and a couple stars here too.”

“It was his birthday present last year—as a joke!”

“I remember that. And obviously he gave it right back.”

“Oh my God, please, find something else. Anything, I’m begging you. Even Stan’s mix, I’ll even listen to that!”

Eddie takes pity on him and pulls out a different mix, changing the tapes quickly. Ramones starts playing instead, so it’s probably just another random mixtape containing a slew of random songs that Richie likes, all mashed together with no real theme or story to the tape. At least 85% of the tapes he’s made are like that, just a stream of consciousness, really.

They pull up to Eddie’s house after some time, spending most of the ride in silence, listening to the music and enjoying each other’s company. Eddie sighs, glancing over at the looming two-story before looking back at Richie. He gives him a smile.

“I had fun today. Even if it was just a couple hours or whatever. It was a lot of fun.”

“Yeah, me too, Eduardo.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and looks away. He gestures to the radio.

“So when are you going to make mine, then?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve got a mixtape for everyone except me. Even you. But not me.”

“Oh, I—” Richie cuts himself off because he’s not too sure how to finish what he wants to say. “I guess I haven’t, huh?” Best to play dumb, he thinks.

“No, you haven’t. So when are you going to make me one?”

Or not. Because Eddie literally doesn’t care at all.

“Oh, I guess I could—”

“Don’t feel pressured to, though. Because that’s not—I want it to be what you want. Like, you do it because you want me to have one, not because I asked you to make me one.”

“Jeez, Eddie, you sound like a girl,” Richie jokes nervously. Eddie levels him with a look.

“So make one if you want,” he says, “but don’t keep me on the ropes.”

And then he opens the door and gets out and goes inside, like he hasn’t dropped a tiny bomb in Richie’s lap.

+++

Richie gets home in a somewhat state of shock. Went looks up from the book he’s reading and raising an eyebrow, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Everything okay?” He asks. Maggie peeks her head in from the dining room.

“Uh, yeah, Eddie just… Uh, yeah.” Then he heads upstairs.

He doesn’t hear his parents’ excited whispering.

+++

It’s not a big deal. Not really.

Really, it’s just a mixtape. Eddie just wants a mixtape because Richie’s the one who went and made mixtapes of songs that represented his favorite parts of his friends, or songs that reminded him of his friends in some way. And he never did that for Eddie, who’s one of his best friends, or, rather, his _best_ friend.

It’s kind of fucked up, actually. If Eddie is really his _best_ friend, then shouldn’t he have been the first person Richie made a mix for?

But, also, he _really_ doesn’t know what he feels about Eddie, especially after their little rooftop adventure and dancing part two escapade. Like, obviously they are _best_ friends, and Richie said himself that their friendship is different, but what does that even mean? Like he really doesn’t know how to explain in what ways it’s different, because he really doesn’t know in what ways it’s different. And what did Eddie mean by “ _don’t keep me on the ropes_.” On the ropes? What the fuck is he talking about? How is Richie possibly keeping _Eddie_ on the ropes? How is he vulnerable? What’s he waiting for? What is Richie failing to do and how come he has no idea what he’s supposed to do?

There’s just a lot of uncertainty, a lot of not-knowing, and Richie keeps thinking about his conversation with Bev and what she said about what he may or may not feel, specifically for Eddie, and she thinks something’s going on between them, but, like, maybe she’s not wrong? Maybe there is something there, but Richie can’t even figure out what it is. And he’s kind of scared to ask Bev because it’s basically admitting that he is feeling _something_ and if what he thinks she thinks that feeling is, is what she actually thinks that feeling is, then he doesn’t want to feel that, or have her thinking that that’s what he’s feeling.

God, now he’s just confusing himself even more.

And he still has to make Eddie a mixtape, or suffer the consequences.

Great.

+++

He goes to Bill, because they were friends first and he knows Richie better than anybody, probably. Well, no, probably not better than Eddie does, or Richie himself, but, like, third best.

He and Bill are at the Aladdin Theater on a Wednesday after school, playing _Street Fighter II_. Luckily, the theater’s really slow today, only a handful of kids mulling about the lobby and laughing as they play their games. There’s one kid with a semi-mullet who keeps giving Richie strange looks, but he’s used to strangers doing that all the time. It’s Bill’s turn right now—as they are currently playing against an AI rather than each other—and he’s playing Ryu, of course, and pretty much failing spectacularly.

“No, you gotta go for the combo there—”

“Yeah, Rich, I g-g-got it.”

“Wait, watch out for—!” Richie winces in sympathy as Ryu K.O.’s. Bill sighs in defeat. “Don’t worry, pal, you’ll get ’em next time.” Bill gives him a look, but inserts another token and gestures for Richie to take the cabinet. Richie shakes his head and Bill raises an eyebrow, but takes control again.

“You not w-wanting to play _Street Fighter_? Are you f-f-feeling okay?” Bill quips. Richie steels himself.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.” Bill quirks his eyebrow again, not taking his eyes off the screen. Chun-Li is currently kicking Ryu’s ass.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, um…” Now that he’s here, it’s kind of hard to get the words out. “Okay, well, basically, I—”

“Shit!” Bill curses when Chun-Li uses a tumbling kick and knocks a good chunk of Ryu’s health off. Richie clears his throat.

“Right, so, I—”

“No!”

“Goddammit, Bill, I’m tryna tell you something!”

Bill looks up at Richie, a little taken aback by the outburst (but then again, it’s Richie, so he can’t be too surprised) and his control of the joystick goes limp. Chun-Li keeps kicking Ryu’s ass. The semi-mullet kid looks up from the Dig Dug cabinet. Richie clears his throat and tries to angle his body so that his back is facing that kid; he doesn’t need anyone seeing him have a tiny breakdown, or listening in, for that matter.

“I’m suh-sorry, Richie. What were you tuh-trying to say?”

Richie sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He really should invest in a hair tie or borrow Bev’s scrunchie like he planned on doing; it’s so hot in here, more so with his hair resting on his neck. He’s pretty sure he’s sweating.

“J-Jesus, Rich, are you okay?” Bill asks, leaning forward to get a better look at Richie.

“Yeah, no, I mean… I just… I’ve been feeling things recently and I don’t really understand them and Bev would just make fun of me if I told her, and, yeah, she’d probably be understanding and sympathetic, but she’d definitely make fun of me first and I don’t want that at all. And I can’t talk to Stan, either, because he’d make fun of me, and it’d be weird to talk to Ben or Mike about it because I’m not really sure how they’d react and I just don’t know who to talk to.”

Bill blinks. “O-oh, wow, um, okay. Why can’t you talk to Eddie?” Richie must make a face because suddenly Bill looks understanding. “It’s about him, isn’t it?” Richie nods.

“Kind of? Mostly about me, but he’s definitely not helping.”

“Okay, wuh-what’s the issue, doc?”

Richie sighs again and then clears his throat. He should just go for it, shouldn’t he? Just say what he’s feeling, or, since he still has no idea on that part, what he thinks he’s feeling. Bill won’t judge him. Not Bill.

“I guess I have been feeling some things that I don’t really understand? Or maybe I don’t want to understand them. I’m still unclear on that whole—” he cuts himself off, waving his hand as if dismissing that thought process. “But, uh, I just think certain things and I think that maybe it’s not bad but then what if I’m the only one thinking them? Or what if I think them but the person I want to think them back isn’t thinking them? That’s so much worse, y’know? And, like, I know that other certain people will not care, because they also think the same things, at least partly, but I’m not sure I want to be the person who thinks those things? Like, it’s okay for other people to think that, but I don’t want that to be me. That’s not who I am. But now that I’m thinking all these things, maybe that is me. Maybe I have to change myself because of what I think, because other people who think those things act a certain way and I need to act that way because I’m now one of them. And—oh, God, what’ll my parents say?”

Richie’s started spiraling and he’s not even sure how to stop talking at this point. Bill, however, just puts his hand on top of Richie’s, which has been gripping the arcade cabinet since his tirade began.

“Rich, d-dude, take a breath.”

Richie does as instructed, taking several deep ones. He’s definitely sweating now.

“I-if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, or what I puh-puh-pieced together from all of _that_ , then you’re not, like, abnormal. In f-fact, I think it’s pretty common to have those thoughts.”

“What?” Richie looks up at Bill, who nods.

“Y-yeah, definitely. I didn’t think I was the p-person to have those feelings either until…” He cuts himself off, because they’re still in the theater lobby and Stan’s name is clearly a masculine name and now’s not the time to say anything definitive anyway. And Richie obviously knows who he’s talking about. “But I had them and it kind of s-s-scared me, too. But they’re not that scary once you realize them, and realize that you can-can’t change them or yourself. That’s just who you are, Richie. It’s not a bad person to be.”

Richie blinks wetly. All these emotions and feelings and thoughts are making him break down a little more than he anticipated he would.

“But I’m not—”

“It’s okay if you’re not F-Freddie Mercury,” Bill says softly, quiet enough that just the two of them will hear. “You don’t have to be Elton John, either. You can just be-be Richie Tozier.”

Richie swipes at his face now. Bill’s grip on his hand tightens.

“Your parents are the s-sweetest and most understanding people I’ve ever met. They won’t care who or what you are, as long as you’re their s-son. As for Eddie…”

“No, I don’t—” Richie shakes his head, but Bill just holds his other hand out, like he’s steadying a frightened horse.

“I think you need to t-talk to him, Richie. I know it’s scary—trust me, I know—but he loves you a lot and he jus-just wants what’s best for you. Besides, I think he might surprise you when you tell him how you f-feel.”

Richie’s eyes widen. “W-what? I don’t feel—” He splutters.

“Don’t worry,” Bill cuts him off, “it’s not that obvious. I mean, we all can t-tell because we’ve known you guys up close and personal for a while, but I don’t think anyone else knows. Or has solid eh-evidence. And I think Eddie might be just as oblivious as you.”

“Oblivious? I’m not oblivious. What is Eddie oblivious about?”

Bill laughs loudly and squeezes Richie’s hand one last time before letting go. “I’ll t-tell you when you’re older,” he teases. Then he gestures to the cabinet. “Now are you gonna p-pay for my next game or did I waste a token for nothing?”

Richie laughs and swipes at his eyes again, making sure they’re dry, before fishing a token out of his pocket and passing it to Bill. He catches the semi-mullet kid’s eye as he turns, and he feels like he knows him, his face is so familiar, but he just looks away and brushes it off. The kid did, however, look weirdly pissed.

“Pick Chun-Li this time, I’m not sitting around waiting for Ryu to get his shit together,” Richie commands. Bill rolls his eyes but concedes.

Yeah, Bill gets him pretty well.

+++

He sits on the information for a long while. He doesn’t want to tell Bev yet, because she’ll definitely laugh first, and he’s not ready for that. He’s pretty sure Bill’s already told Stan, which, he could probably go and confide in Stan, but him and Stan are bitchy to each other and that’s their thing, and he doesn’t really want the bitchy right now, not about this. He could talk to Mike, but he’s not sure how he’d react. He knows that Mike is cool with Bill and Stan, but they’re Bill and Stan, and Richie’s just Richie. And then he could tell Ben, and Ben would probably be cool, but… He just doesn’t.

And he absolutely doesn’t tell Eddie.

He’s not sure where he and Eddie stand right now, adding something like _that_ might just break them.

And Bill doesn’t know what he’s talking about, anyway.

+++

Nearing the end of October, they all decide to go see the new Chuck Norris film and even though it’s R-rated, the guy at the counter just rolls his eyes and lets them in anyway. They sit at the very back of the theater and thankfully it’s not packed at all, really only a couple other people around. Richie finds a spot in between Eddie and Bev, elbowing his way to the armrests. Both of them complain and shove at him, but he just grins and doesn’t let up.

They spend most of the movie tossing candies at each other and snickering and making up jokes about the not-too-great dialogue.

“ _I’m so goddamn horny I could fuck mud_ ,” Del says onscreen, and the Losers all snicker, but Bev and Richie at the same time say:

“Same!”

Then everyone busts up laughing harder, which causes the other people in the theater to shush them loudly.

The movie’s not too great, in the end, but they all leave laughing and feeling a little bit better than before.

They’re walking out, and Richie’s got one arm slung around Stan, who begrudgingly accepts this, and another slung around Eddie, when Mike brings up Halloween.

“My grandfather said we can hang out in the old barn, and we can decorate it and everything!”

“Don’t you guys wanna go trick-or-treating, though?” Ben asks.

Bev makes a face. “I’d much rather get wasted.”

“Me too!” Richie chirps.

“But we can get can-candy,” Bill points out, nodding a finger in Richie’s direction. Richie nods one back.

“You have a great point, sir.”

“I don’t want to drink,” Eddie declares. Richie gives him a bewildered look.

“Now’s our chance, Eds! To live a little! If we’re not going to get drunk on Halloween, then who will?”

“We don’t have to get drunk to have a good time, and I’m sure there will be plenty of other teenagers all across America, and the world, getting drunk for our sakes,” Eddie replies, nudging Richie’s ribs. Richie notices that that’s, like, five times that Eddie has let Richie call him Eds, this time now in front of their friends, who definitely take notice.

“Yeah, but what’ll we be doing? Eating candy? Watching _Halloween_?”

“No, I’m not watching that shit again.”

“You literally already know how it ends!”

“That doesn’t mean I need to see it again!”

“Oh, God,” Stan groans, wiggling out from under Richie’s arm and moving all the way down toward Bev, as Richie and Eddie continue to bicker. “Honestly, just get a room already.”

“What?” Richie and Eddie say simultaneously, turning to look at him, Richie’s arm still around Eddie’s shoulders.

“N-nothing!” Bill perks up, clamping a hand over Stan’s mouth when he tries to speak. Bev laughs, almost nervously, and sidles up next to Richie’s free side, wrapping her arm around his waist.

“Ignore him,” she urges, “he and Bill are just being domestic.”

“Ah,” Richie says, sparing them a glance and a thumbs up, before looking forward again.

Behind them, Ben and Mike share a look, shaking their heads in disbelief.

+++

They decide to go to Mike’s barn for Halloween, but trick-or-treat for an hour and a half first, in order to make everyone happy. They even take Bill’s little brother Georgie, who is so adorable and happy to be apart of the group that it melts Richie’s heart.

(They had a scare a few years back, when Richie and Bill and everyone was 12, because there was storm, a bad one, and Georgie had gone out to play in the rain, but when it was time for supper, he was nowhere to be found. He was missing for two days before they found him by a sewer outflow in the Barrens, a spot the Losers would later adopt despite the bad memories. Georgie had been freezing and shivering, looking absolutely terrified and babbling about a clown in the sewers. No one knew what happened to him, and he never did really say, but ever since then he’s been attached to Bill as much as he can be. Richie knows that Bill mostly blames himself for Georgie’s disappearance, and that’s why he lets him tag along, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It’ll probably take some time for Bill to really accept that, though.)

They dress up as _Street Fighter_ characters, specifically the newest _Street Fighter_ , mainly because they couldn’t find any group costumes that worked with seven people (Georgie goes as a little Ghostbuster, which, again, adorable). Bev is Chun-Li, and she totally goes all out, qipao and tights and all; Bill is Ryu, obviously; Stan is Ken, because “Ryu and Ken are obviously more than ‘training partners,’ Richie, God”; Ben is E. Honda, because he claims he captures Honda’s “spirit” the best; Mike is Zangief, because of his muscles; Eddie is Guile, which is hilarious considering how short and slight he is compared to how Guile is supposed to be; and Richie is Blanka, complete with green body paint and his hair spiked up as best as it can be.

“We look absolutely lame,” Bev notes as she twirls in her costume in front of the mirror in Richie’s room, an hour before they’re supposed to go trick-or-treating.

“Yeah, but at least we’re lame together,” Richie replies. She beams.

“True that.”

Eddie laughs at him when he sees him all greenified, but Georgie says he looks cool, so it’s worth it.

Apparently, Mike and his girlfriend Betsy set the barn up, and it looks pretty awesome. They have a cable with a bunch of extension cords leading to the house that connects to a movie projector, and they set up a bunch of cushions and blankets and pillows and even some sleeping bags for people to sit/lay on. There’s two long tables with a bunch of snacks on it, some of them Halloween-inspired like little mummy cookies and candied apples that Richie’s pretty sure Betsy made. There’s orange, black, purple, and green streamers hung from everywhere and some balloons, too. It’s very festive, and kind of looks like Halloween threw up on the barn, but it works. And it doesn’t even smell like dung, which was Richie’s biggest concern.

And Betsy’s there, dressed up in what appears to be a Dhalsim costume, but if he were female. And she’s showing a lot of skin, like as much as Mike, and he’s just wearing these little spandex shorts (and he did have a robe on earlier when they were trick-or-treating but that’s apparently gone now).

“Hi guys!” Betsy chirps when everyone enters the barn for the first time. She’s pouring out blood red punch into little orange paper cups with bats on them. She smiles brightly, brushing black curls out of her eyes with one hand. “How was trick-or-treating?”

Everyone just shuffles in and stares at her and the barn in awe. Richie does, however, see Bev make an aborted move to cover herself up.

“It was great, babe,” Mike replies, heading straight for her to kiss her. And, oh, it’s passionate, one of those where you can’t really look away but it’s your best friend and it’s weird to watch him practically get it on with his girlfriend, but they’re both very attractive people just making out in front of you. Richie clears his throat and looks away. Now it’s just weird.

“Glad to hear it,” he hears Betsy say, so he assumes it’s safe to look back. She’s smiling at them again, one arm around Mike’s waist. She’s a lot shorter than him and has a darker complexion, and she’s definitely one of those people that kind of looks like the sun embodied in a person, all bright and beautiful and enchanting. And she’s also literally wearing a bra and a piece of cloth around her pelvis, so it’s pretty hard to look away from her as is.

“It looks am-amazing in here, Betsy,” Bill compliments, gesturing to the barn. “Best it’s looked in years.”

“Aww, thanks, Bill! Did your little brother already go home?”

“Y-yeah, he has a curfew,” Bill explains. Richie’s sure Betsy knows what happened, because pretty much everybody knows what happened, but she doesn’t say anything on the matter, instead smiling wider.

“Well, I’m glad he got home okay. You’re so sweet for taking him with you.” Bill blushes at the compliment. Betsy really is a total sweetheart. Then she leans forward suddenly, like she’s just remembered something. She gestures between Stan and Bill. “Oh, and I’m glad you guys worked things out, because, let me tell you, that sexual tension was killing me.”

Yeah, and she speaks her mind too. That’s another thing Richie likes about her.

Bill and Stan simultaneously blush.

“O-oh, thanks, Betsy.”

She just smiles at them in return, and then sets her sights on Bev, who minutely shifts uncomfortably under the gaze. Richie knows that she has a bit of a problem with other girls, maybe because of all the bullying or maybe because of her dad, he’s not too sure. Either way, she doesn’t make girl friends easily, and girls usually make her uncomfortable. Case in point.

But Betsy just whistles lowly. “Whoa, Bev, you look hot as Chun-Li! Seriously, I love your qipao! Blue is totally your color!”

Bev stares for a moment, like she thinks it’s a joke, before smiling wide and straightening the qipao. “Thanks, Bets.”

“Sure, girl! I don’t know how you are with fashion, but I’d love to get your opinion. We definitely should make a date to go shopping.”

“Oh! Um, yeah, I don’t really… But I’d love to. That’d be fun.” Bev’s smiling shyly now and Richie feels his heart warm up at the sight. Bev deserves to have a good girl friend, someone she can confide in, because as much as her and Richie talk about literally everything, it’s probably not the same as having an actual girl friend.

“We’ll schedule something!” Betsy promises. Then she meets Richie’s eye. “Oh, and Richie, loving the green, by the way.”

Richie grins, adjusting his glasses. Unfortunately, he couldn’t take them off or else he’d be blind, and he doesn’t have contacts, so the paint is kind of rubbing off his skin and onto his glasses, but it’s fine.

“Thanks, my alternate was the Wicked Witch of the West, but everyone agreed to _Street Fighter_ first.”

Betsy laughs and shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know, I would’ve made an adorable Glinda, with Bev as Dorothy and maybe Bill as the Scarecrow and Ben as the Wizard of Oz!”

“And Eddie as the Cowardly Lion!” Richie chirps.

Eddie shoves at Richie, who just laughs. Betsy coos.

“Oh! I didn’t know you guys also—”

Then Mike elbows her in the ribs hard and she stumbles to the side a little. She immediately starts toward Mike, but he shakes his head and starts doing weird head and eyebrow movements, but apparently Betsy gets it because she makes a noise of understanding and turns back toward Richie and Eddie.

“I mean, I didn’t know you guys also liked _The Wizard of Oz_ ,” she laughs awkwardly, which really isn’t her. “That’s—wow, what a crazy coincidence.”

“Uh, yeah, psycho,” Richie agrees, but he’s mainly just confused. But then everyone is starting to break off and move toward different areas of the barn, so it’s whatever. Richie finds himself heading toward the snack station with Bev, who is still flouncing around proudly after her compliment from Betsy.

“Look at these Rice Krispie Treats! They’re little monsters!” She exclaims, picking up a purple one with one fake edible eyeball.

“Oh, yeah, our Betsy’s got a gift!”

“Apparently, Mikey helped her make these. They’re very… Domestic,” she says, kind of wrinkling her nose at the term. “But it works for them, so who am I to judge?”

“Speaking of working for them, how are you and Ben?”

“A great segue,” Bev says sarcastically, raising an eyebrow and taking a bite of the monster in her hands. “God, this is great. Richie, try one!”

She hands him a little green monster with five small eyeballs. He takes a bite and hums appreciatively.

“Better than Halloween candy?” She jokes.

“Most definitely. But you still didn’t answer my question.”

Bev rolls her eyes and takes another bite, thinking a moment before responding.

“We kissed.”

“Oh?” Richie grins and raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, but now we’ve hardly talked since. Like, it’s all weird and I don’t know why and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Richie hums. “Have you tried talking to him?”

“I just get so nervous! I don’t get why, but I’m just so scared to go up and talk to him about it.”

“Do you want it to happen again?”

“Of course, but—”

“Then tell him that. Ben’s a great guy, Bev, you know that. If you make your feelings known, he’s sure to try to help you out in any way he can. He also is head over heels for you, so that helps.”

Bev rolls her eyes again— and, wow, she probably rolls her eyes as much as Eddie does—and finishes her treat, nodding her head in Eddie’s direction, who’s talking to Betsy and occasionally gesturing to his costume, which consists of camo pants, military boots, and a white tank top that shows off his arms and, huh, he’s got a little definition in those scrawny biceps that Richie doesn’t think he’s ever seen before and—

“Have you done anything about that?” Bev asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Richie shoves the rest of his monster in his mouth to avoid talking and picks up one of the bloody punches. Bev raises an eyebrow again and crosses her arms over her chest, but merely waits for him to finish.

“Ha, uh, well…” He starts after he’s swallowed everything, pride included. “Well, I guess he and I have been hanging out a lot recently.”

“You guys always hang out,” she points out.

“Yeah, but we’ve been… I don’t know, Bev, what do you want me to say?”

“Did you ever get those feelings?” She asks. “No pressure, of course, and maybe you won’t ever have them, and that’s fine too, but I don’t know, I think you might—”

“I talked to Bill,” he blurts out. She lifts her chin in question. “Yeah, uh, I talked to Bill and he said Eds and I are oblivious and that I’m—” He hesitates. Bev won’t laugh at him. She won’t. He hopes. “That it’s okay that I’m… That I’m starting to feel a certain way. Not necessarily towards anybody. Just in general.”

Bev’s eyes do this weird thing and her eyebrows pull together and she jumps forward, yanking Richie into a hug, strong enough that he stumbles back at the force. But he wraps his arms around her back and buries his face in her neck and tries to keep his emotions in check.

“I’m so proud of you, Richie,” she whispers, holding him tightly. “I’m so fucking proud of you, oh my God.”

Richie lets out a laugh that might be a sob of relief, but it’s muffled by Bev’s shoulder so he can’t be too sure.

Then Bev laughs.

“I can’t believe you just fucking confessed that to me dressed like Blanka.”

Richie bursts out laughing, loud enough that the Losers all look their way. But his face is also hidden, and all they’d see is Bev grinning like a madman, so he doesn’t care.

After a long hug—and probably some manful tears, maybe sweat, who knows—Richie pulls away and takes Bev’s face in his hands. There’s green paint kind of everywhere, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“I love you, Bevvie,” he says earnestly. She smiles softly and reaches up and kisses him square on the mouth, a warm and familial peck, like an old friend saying hello.

“I love you too, Rich.” Then she playfully pinches his side and worms her way under his arm. “Now let’s get fucking _plastered_ and forget about our boys problems for a bit, yeah?”

He laughs and nods, and drags her over to the cooler where he last saw the booze.

+++

He’s—well, actually, he has no idea how many he’s had—drinks in when someone kindly taps on his shoulder. None of his friends are kind, so he turns slowly, scared to see who’s suddenly behind him. But it’s just Ben. He stands corrected: Ben is very kind and really nice. He’s probably the best of them all.

“Heyyyy, Benny Boy!” Richie slurs, slinging an arm around Ben’s shoulders. Ben’s gotten a little height on him over the past couple of years, not as tall as Richie or Mike, who are the tallest of all the Losers, but he’s taller than Bill and almost as tall Stan, and he towers over Eddie and Bev, both of whom haven’t properly hit their growth spurts yet (though there’s no way either of them will get very tall (maybe Eddie’s in the running, though, he could get closer to 6’0” than Bev, that’s for sure)). But, yeah, right, arm around Ben, pulling him close and giving him a half-hearted noogie.

“Richie,” Ben greets warmly, knocking away Richie’s fist. “How, uh, are you feeling, bud?”

“I fleel—I fleel—” Richie starts laughing at his own mistake, then shakes himself and tries again. “I _feel_ great, Haystack!”

“Oh, okay, that’s good. Have you had any water yet?”

“You’re such a worrywart! Just like Eds, just like Eds. Is he here? He’s still here, right?” Richie starts looking around for Eddie, letting go of Ben to search, but he’s probably had a little too much because all he sees are the tail ends of light streaks, like comets suspended midair.

“He’s watching the movie with Stan and Bill and—and Bev. Actually, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh? Eds? You wanted to talk about him?”

“Well, no, not right now, exactly. I just wanted to—you kissed Bev earlier.”

Richie blinks. He remembers that. At least, kissing her sober, he’s not sure if he’s kissed her since.

“Yeah. Well, no, she kissed me, but yeah. Why?”

“Why did she kiss you?” Ben asks, seemingly confused. Richie’s confused about why he’s confused.

“Oh, do you know?”

“No, wait, that’s—what? No, okay, um, what I _wanted_ to ask was… Well, did you mean it? To kiss her? In _that_ way?”

Richie blinks again. He’s not a lightweight, not in the slightest, so he must’ve drank a lot because he literally cannot process anything right now. Not in the way Ben wants him to process things evidently.

“In what way?”

Ben huffs, a little frustrated. “Do you like her, Rich? That’s what I’m asking.”

Richie grabs Ben’s hands tightly. “Oh! No, no, no, no, no, Benny! Man! Beverly Marsh is the light of my life, but I wouldn’t fuck her. I mean, probably not. I guess if there were the right circumstances—”

“That is _so_ not what I asked,” Ben winces.

“She likes you,” Richie stage whispers, leaning closer to Ben. Ben leans back a little, either at the proximity or the smell of the liquor on Richie’s breath. He raises his eyebrows in response.

“Who, Bev?”

Richie giggles. “No, Betsy. _Yes, Bevvie_! She has the hots for you. She’s—” Richie starts giggling more. “She’s hot to trot!”

“Okay, well,” Ben starts, stepping back and pulling away from Richie completely. He pats Richie’s chest once in a sort of _Thanks a lot, pal_ way. His hands are all green now. “That’s nice to know, I guess. Thanks for clearing that up, Rich. Drink some water. Please.”

Richie salutes Ben as best he can. Ben just nods and heads over to the array of cushions, finding a spot in between Bev and Eddie. They converse for a moment before everyone looks over at him. Richie waves cheerily. He sees Eddie sigh, say something to the group, and stand up, heading his way.

“Eduardo!” Richie greets as Eddie approaches. Eddie makes a little face and gestures to the cooler behind him.

“I see you’ve pretty much cleaned us out,” Eddie says in lieu of a greeting. Richie shrugs.

“Someone haddta,” he mumbles. There’s actually still a lot of alcohol left, an amalgamation of what everyone could steal from their parents’ liquor cabinets, as much as they possibly could, without their parents noticing. But Richie has had quite a bit. He’ll need to stop now and drink water, and probably eat more than a monster Rice Krispie Treat, unless he wants to spend the rest of the night in a daze and tomorrow morning in a toilet bowl.

“Why don’t we get you water?” Eddie grabs at Richie’s elbow and starts leading him toward the snack station, not pulling, but not being all gentle like Ben would’ve been. Richie follows nonetheless, because it’s Eddie who’s leading him.

“I’m bored,” Richie complains when they get to the snack station, drawing out the ‘d’ as Eddie starts pouring some of the ice water into one of the paper cups. He thrusts it at Richie.

“Drink up,” he commands.

“Yes, Dr. Kaspbrak,” Richie grumbles, taking the cup and downing it like a shot. Eddie looks unimpressed. Richie gets a fleeting idea and holds onto it, jumping a little, excited. “Let’s play a game!”

He’s loud enough that the other Losers hear him, even Betsy and Mike apparently, who are somewhere in the barn but not currently visible to Richie.

“Ooh, that sounds fun!” Betsy chirps, suddenly appearing pretty much from thin air behind Richie, grabbing some water for herself. Mike appears behind her, looking a little frazzled, clothes a bit rumpled.

“What kind of game?” Bev asks from the cushions.

“Like truth or dare?” Stan asks, a mischievous look in his face. Bill gives him a look, but Stan seems unapologetic.

“Wuh-what about Go Fish or Blackjack?” Bill suggests.

“We don’t have cards,” Ben points out.

“There might be some in the house,” Mike replies, then looks a little sheepish, “but I don’t want to go inside dressed like this.”

“What about Spin the Bottle?” Richie offers, smirking. As Eddie and Bill start to protest, the girls cheer loudly.

“That’s a great idea, Rich,” Stan says, surprising everybody. “We should definitely play Spin the Bottle.”

“On s-s-second thought, why don’t we—”

“Bill, the man wants to play Spin the Bottle,” Bev says. “So let’s play Spin the Bottle!” She does something with her eyebrows and Bill rolls his eyes.

“Okay, fuh-fine. Eddie, are you okay with that?”

Eddie looks taken aback. “Why wouldn’t I be okay with that?”

“Well, there’s a lot of germs in kissing,” Mike says, also doing an eyebrow thing to Eddie, who, also, seems to understand. He looks grateful.

“Y-yeah, maybe I’ll just watch,” Eddie concedes.

“No way! I’m not playing without my Eddie Bear!” Richie wraps an arm around Eddie and pulls him close. Eddie pushes at him, but not enough to push him off.

“How about we make it just pecks, then?” Betsy suggests. “Unless it’s your partner. That way no one has to swap spit with someone they don’t want to.”

“What if you want to swap spit with someone?” Bev teases. Betsy grins.

“Then you open wide.”

Bev and Richie laugh, and just like that they start setting everything up. They all move to sit in a circle on the floor by the cushions, which is covered by a couple blankets, thankfully. Mike grabs a beer bottle and quickly shares it between everyone, trying to drain it as fast as possible. Eddie lets Richie have two sips before he cuts him off, and only has three for himself, wrinkling his nose every time he has to drink.

They set the now empty bottle in the center of the circle. Stan, Bev, and Betsy took it upon themselves to bring over as many snacks as they could, so everyone’s munching on popcorn and mummy cookies and monster finger pretzel sticks while _Halloween_ plays on the barn wall behind them. They also each choose some kind of alcohol to wash everything down, though Richie settles for more water, at the behest of Eddie and Ben, because, honestly, those two are just mother hens.

“So, who spins first?” Betsy claps her hands together, looking all too much like the cat that got the cream.

“Well, it _was_ Richie’s idea,” Bev notes, smiling. Richie smirks and leans forward.

“Gladly. Watch and learn, ladies and germs.” He spins the bottle and takes a sip of his water as he watches in anticipation. He thinks he’d be fine with it landing on anybody except you-know-who. He doesn’t even want to think about that possibility, not unless it actually happens.

Fortunately, it lands on Stan.

“Oh, God,” Stan groans. Everyone starts laughing and cheering.

“C’mere, Stan the Man, show me whatcha got!” The boys both lean forward, Stan reluctantly, and Richie gingerly takes Stan’s face in his hand, treating the moment as something very tender. Stan gives him a weird look as he does, but Richie tries to ignore it, leaning in closer.

Then he licks one long stripe up the side of Stan’s face.

“Oh, Jesus, Richie!” Stan shoves Richie away and scrambles back, wiping vigorously at his face. Everyone laughs harder, and Richie leans back to sit on his haunches.

“You taste like Matzo balls,” he comments. Stan glares at him.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” he replies. Richie just grins back.

When Stan recovers, he spins the bottle, and on it goes. Stan and Mike share a peck, Mike kisses Ben’s nose, Ben pecks Bill, Bill kisses Betsy’s cheek, Betsy pulls Bev in for a rather intense make-out session that has all of the boys—even Stan and Eddie, who are typically more uptight—shifting awkwardly and trying to pretend that they aren’t totally staring. Bev spins Richie after that, and she grips his hair as she pulls him in for an open-mouthed kiss, one that he definitely likes, but it’s also kind of weird, like kissing a family member. So, huh, with that information in play, he’d probably never have sex with Bev, then.

(And, side note, as hot as it was to see Betsy and Bev kiss, that also didn’t do much of anything for him. Not like it used to. Or maybe it never did. He doesn’t know and, again, is trying not to think about it.)

“Careful, Bev,” he jokes when they pull away. “Keep kissing me like that and I may have to steal you away from ol’ Haystack here.”

Ben swats at him, but Bev giggles and wipes the green paint off her face. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want,” she teases back.

“Oh, c’mon, Bevvie, you know my heart already belongs to another.” Bev’s eyes widen a bit and Eddie shifts towards him.

“And… Who would your heart belong to?” He asks. Richie turns to Eddie.

“Why, your mother, of course!” Eddie deflates a little and rolls his eyes, turning away. “You know, she and I are very happy, Eddie, and as your new stepfather—”

“Beep-beep, Richie,” Eddie says, waving him away. Richie doesn’t see Bev’s look of disappointment, or the look the other Losers share. “Just spin, asshole.”

Richie shrugs and spins the bottle and it lands right on—oh. Eddie looks over at him, something close to fear in his eyes. But he’s probably just nervous, right? As far as Richie knows, Eddie hasn’t kissed very many people. Actually… Richie’s not sure he’s kissed anyone. Not that Richie really has room to talk; the only people he’s kissed, like really kissed, are Bev, who really doesn’t count, and Lina Morse, when he was, like, 14 at her birthday party.

And he’s nervous to kiss Eddie, too, because this is right on track with those feelings that he didn’t want to have, or didn’t want to think about having. And now he’s realizing that he kinda sorta feels _that_ way about people that aren’t like Bev and Betsy but are more like Stan and Bill and Mike and Ben and—and _Eddie_ —and he’s scared that this will be a clear confirmation of what he feels. But, also, isn’t that what he wants? Doesn’t he just want to know? He should want that, but he’s scared of the repercussions. What if he _is_? What if he _does_?

But he can’t worry about that right now, because this is potentially Eddie’s first kiss, and he wants to make it good for Eddie. He can at least do that.

“Don’t worry, Eds, I’ll go easy on ya,” Richie joshes. They’re sitting next to each other, so they don’t really need to lean across the circle, which is nice. Still, Richie doesn’t move closer until he has Eddie’s confirmation.

Eddie scoffs. “‘Go easy on me?’ As opposed to what? And what experience do you have?”

“I’ll have you know that I have plenty of experience! Greta Keene, Sally Mueller, your mom—”

“Oh my God, just shut up already!”

Eddie jumps forward and seals their lips together, and that sobers Richie right up. Richie’s hands immediately go to Eddie’s face, cupping his cheeks and tilting his own head to give them a better angle. He feels Eddie’s hands on his knees, supporting himself up so he can reach Richie. It’s ridiculously endearing, how small he is compared to Richie, how he literally has to use Richie’s knees to raise himself up higher just to kiss him, and it makes Richie’s stomach churn pleasantly.

Richie’s fingertips span from brushing into Eddie’s hair to curling underneath his jaw, and he can feel the movements of Eddie’s jaw as they kiss. He has no idea how long they’ve been kissing, because it already feels like it’s been a long time , but no one’s said anything yet and Eddie’s still kissing him, grip so tight on his knees that Richie kind of hopes there’ll be little bruises there.

He thinks he might get it now, what everyone’s been talking about or hinting at. This is the precipice that he felt earlier, the one that was dark and unknown, but now, sitting here, kissing Eddie, he thinks he knows what’s at the bottom, and it’s not so dark or scary, especially not if Eddie stays at his side.

But this is the feeling Bev was talking about; the looks that everyone has been giving him and each other has been about this. What his dad was hinting at, what Bill has been saying, the thoughts he didn’t want to have. This is it.

The feeling sits in his chest, clutched around his heart, like a fist squeezing, and it hurts, yeah, but not in a bad way, which is kind of weird. It feels a little like longing, like waiting and hoping for something, only for that something to actually come true or happen. It’s like a ball of warmth that he can’t extinguish, one he certainly doesn’t want to.

Maybe this is what Eddie was waiting for, this is why he’s been “on the ropes” and Richie didn’t even know it. But Eddie did. Eddie knew this whole time, or he felt this feeling too, and he was just waiting for Richie to feel it, waiting for Richie to acknowledge it. Maybe he’s feeling this feeling all over again, because now Richie gets it, and they’re feeling it together.

Richie’s not sure, and he thinks he’ll need to probably talk to Eddie and maybe do some introspection before he can declare anything, but all he knows definitively is that he likes what’s happening.

Does that make him gay, though? (And, God, just thinking the word gives him a headache.) Or, maybe, bisexual? He’s heard that’s a thing now, liking boys _and_ girls. He’s liked girls before, kissed girls before, but he also likes guys. Or, at the very least, he likes Eddie and—

Oh, yeah. That’s it. He likes Eddie.

He _totally_ likes Eddie.

He could almost laugh by how stupidly simple that statement is, and yet how many issues it has caused him, how long he’s been hemming and hawing because he was confused or didn’t understand it.

But, plain and simple, he just fucking likes Eddie.

Eddie pulls away at last, breathing heavily. Not needs-an-inhaler-heavy, but like he just got-the-living-daylights-kissed-out-of-him-heavy. Richie’s breathing pretty heavy too, and they’re just breathing into each other’s faces, foreheads resting together. Eddie’s eyes are closed, but Richie’s staring right at him, in awe that he just got to kiss someone as beautiful and radical as Eddie fucking Kaspbrak.

Then Eddie kind of snickers.

“That’s going easy?” He starts laughing full on, leaning back to properly look at Richie, hands still on Richie’s knees. There’s green paint residue smeared on his cheeks and his forehead and his lips, and he looks utterly ridiculous, but it’s kind of cute. “If that was going easy, I’d love to see what the alternative is.”

Someone makes a choking sound.

Richie’s pretty sure Eddie means it as a joke, but the thought alone makes him hot all over. But he just grins instead.

“Well, if you’re itching to know, why don’t you just ask your—”

“Shut the fuck up, Richie.”

Eddie finally lets go of Richie’s knees and sits down properly, belatedly wiping at the green on his face. Richie watches him for a minute before he turns back to the circle. Everyone is sitting there with varying degrees of shock and excitement on their faces, but none of them say a word. Richie avoids eye contact.

The silence hangs for just a moment before Betsy—sweet and cool Betsy—gestures towards Eddie.

“Alright then. Eddie, why don’t you take a spin?”

And that’s that, although Eddie, after sharing a soft peck with Betsy, is now sitting with his right leg all but plastered against Richie’s left leg, and he leaves his hands on his knees, so his fingers keep brushing Richie’s knee and it’s kind of driving Richie crazy.

But they don’t talk about it.

+++

The next day, which is a Friday but Richie manages to convince his parents to let him stay home, Richie drives to Bev’s house and knocks on her door with a little rap that they made up to signal it was one of them, and then goes to wait for her on the fire escape, smoking a cigarette to keep himself calm. He knows that she stayed home today too, and he really needs to talk to someone right now.

And he and Bev basically talked about _it_ last night. There’s really nothing to rehash; he’s said his piece and she said she was proud and that should be it. But Richie feels like there’s more he needs to say, like there’s new feelings, or maybe old feelings, all coming to light.

Bev comes out after a few minutes, squishing down next to Richie on the stairs and pulling a cigarette from behind her ear. Her hair’s getting longer, somewhat curly, too, probably just the same length as Richie’s, maybe a bit shorter. It looks good on her, though. Just like the short hair did. Just like the long hair she used to rock in elementary and middle school did.

“Got a light?”

Richie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lime green lighter Bev gave to him a couple months ago. Just another one in his growing collection.

“Thanks,” Bev mumbles around her cigarette as Richie lights it. He nods and pockets it, taking a drag of his own. “So, I’m assuming you’re here to talk about last night?”

“That obvious?” He jokes, but, yeah, it kind of is that obvious. You don’t have that kind of kiss with someone you’re “just friends” with.

“It was some kiss,” she notes. “I mean, Bets and I were fanning ourselves for sure. Even Ben couldn’t look away and he’s the straightest of us all.”

Richie snorts and scratches at his jaw. “It was…” The best kiss of his life. He knows that he hasn’t had many to compare it to, but if he’s ranking the kisses it’d be: Lina Morse, and then far ahead, Beverly Marsh, and then, far, far, far ahead, Eddie, once again, fucking Kaspbrak. And, like he said before, he’s pretty sure that was Eddie’s first kiss, and it just totally blew him out of the water.

“Yeah, I could tell,” Bev says smugly, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth. “You guys looked pretty into it.”

“I just—you remember those feelings we were talking about? Yesterday and, before that, a while ago?” Bev nods. “Well, yeah, this is me letting you know. I definitely have those feelings, and they are definitely about Eddie, and I definitely don’t know what to do about it.”

Bev smiles and then shrugs. “Well, you could, I don’t know, talk to him about it.”

Richie huffs. “Yeah, no, I know that, but, like, I’m looking for alternative options.”

“That’s literally the same advice you gave me about Ben last night.”

“I don’t take my own advice, Beverly.”

Bev rolls her eyes. “Rich, talking to him is the best option. Seriously, just tell him how you feel and maybe kiss him again for good measure. One of those grab-his-face-and-kiss-him-hard kisses, though. One that’ll rock his world.”

“I’m literally just figuring out that I like him, I’m not sure I’m ready for all that, Bev.”

“You seemed pretty ready last night.”

“I was very much in the moment,” he defends. “When someone as cute as Eddie Kaspbrak is all up in your face, you find it very hard to do anything other than exactly what he says.”

Bev hums. “Interesting, though, that you’d say it like that. Because you’re right, Eddie was the one who kissed _you_ , not the other way around. Considering it was your turn to spin the bottle, you should’ve been the one to kiss _him_ , but he did kinda jump on you and kiss you, dontcha think? Like he was eager to, like he wanted to. Kinda weird.”

Richie shakes his head. “That logic is totally flawed, and I know what you’re getting at, and Eddie doesn’t—”

Well, maybe he does. Richie remembers last night perfectly, remembers thinking that maybe Eddie was waiting for him to get the big picture. Maybe Eddie _did_ want to kiss Richie, but the thought that maybe he _didn’t_ trumps everything else and shuts down that hopeful thought process real quick.

“Eddie probably doesn’t feel that way,” he says at last. “I’m sure he just wanted to get it over with.”

Yeah, that’s it. He just wanted the kiss to be over with so he rushed Richie, and, yeah, they kissed for a long time, but it was a good kiss, regardless of if anyone felt any feelings. That’s probably exactly what happened.

Eddie’s not waiting for _him_ or anything, he’s probably just waiting for that damn mixtape Richie’s supposed to make. And he’s vulnerable because… Well, actually, Richie still hasn’t figured that part out yet.

“That’s so not what—” Bev makes an angry, frustrated noise. “God, Rich, for someone’s who’s a borderline genius, you are a real idiot sometimes.”

Richie scowls. “Bev, believe me, if Eddie felt that way, he would’ve said something. It’s Eddie. He doesn’t hold anything back.”

“You remember when you said that Bill said you guys are oblivious. This is what he’s talking about! I’m not gonna say anything because it’s not my place to tell you, but I really, _really_ think you should talk to Eddie. Just be honest and tell him what you feel, even if you don’t really understand it. He’s your best friend, Rich, he’s not gonna turn you away.”

Richie’s not really worried about that, because if Richie ends up being like Stan, or even Bill, Eddie wouldn’t turn him away. Eddie’s not an asshole, he’s not like that, and even with all the weird and gross and bad shit he knows about Richie—and there’s quite a bit of it—he still stands by Richie’s side, no matter what. That wouldn’t break them, he knows that now.

He’s more worried, though, that Eddie doesn’t feel the same way. Because that’ll crush him.

And worse, if he confesses any feelings he might have for Eddie and Eddie doesn’t feel the same way, could they go back to how they were before? Or would there be an awkward air around everything they do, stilted and aborted movements as they dance around each other, struggling to fill silences because something just doesn’t feel right anymore, not like how it used to.

_That_ would break them.

But, “Okay,” he says, staring off at the town of Derry. Usually everything looks smaller from up high, but, for some reason, today, everything looks too big. “I guess I could try to talk to him. Maybe one feeling at a time.”

“That’s all I ask.” Bev wraps an arm around Richie’s shoulders. “I know I already told you, but I’m proud of you, Richie. Like, ridiculously proud of you.”

Richie smiles down at her, and leans over to kiss the top of her head.

“Thanks, Bevvie. And thanks for all the talks and junk.”

“You know I’m always here for you, Rich.”

Richie’s smile widens. “Yeah, I know.” And then he laughs a little. “You know, I was so scared of telling you at first. I think I even told Bill that I thought you’d laugh or tease me. Before you started being all supportive, I mean.”

Bev pulls back a bit to look at his face. “Richie, I would never laugh at you for telling me something like that.”

“I know,” he says, because he does. He was scared before, and he’s still scared now, but having told her makes him feel better, even if it’s only a little bit. “I guess I was just scared.”

Bev doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares at him with an indecipherable expression on her face. Then she shrugs a shoulder.

“Shit’s scary. But you don’t have to face it alone. That’s why I’m here. That’s why all of us are here.”

And, shit, is he glad to have a friend like Bev. All of the Losers, for that matter. And her saying that makes him think that even if something goes wrong—if Eddie doesn’t feel the same, or if things change, or if something else happens—it won’t even matter that much because he has them, and that’s never going to change.

+++

He did plan to talk to Eddie. Totally did. Even made little notecards with bullet points of what he wants to say.

(Which was a whole thing, because Went found him sitting on his bed, notecard pressed against the pane of the window as he wrote down this thoughts and then subsequently scribbled them out. When Went had entered the room, Richie turned around all dramatic, like he’d just been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. But Went just laughed and wished Richie good luck and didn’t ask any other questions. And it made Richie wonder if Went knew what was actually going on, but how could he have possibly found that out?)

And then he, well, chickened out, basically.

He’s just so sure that Eddie doesn’t feel the same way. There’s no way, after all. Eddie’s Eddie and Richie’s Richie. Eddie would have to be a total idiot to fall for a loser like Richie.

So, again, he sits on it. He knows the other Losers have got everything all figured out now, Richie-wise. They were all there, saw the kiss go down, no doubt saw how much it affected Richie, to the point where he’s pretty sure he zoned out for half the night just replaying the kiss, and the touches, in his mind.

But no one says anything, probably because they don’t want to freak him out. And he’s pretty sure he would freak out. He still hasn’t done that introspection he said he was gonna do, so there’s still a lot of boxes unchecked and stones unturned and whatever.

And now it’s been weeks since Eddie requested that stupid mixtape and Richie, though desperately wanting to appease Eddie, still has no idea where to even start.

He likes Eddie, yes, he’s established that. But what does Eddie make him _feel_? That ball of light in his chest, what the hell is that? Maybe it’s partly happiness, because he does feel that around Eddie, but there’s more to it than just that, more that he just can’t identify.

He knows the answer is right in front of him, but it’s like he can’t reach it and grab it, like it’s always a few steps ahead.

He mostly just feels like an idiot.

But, _all_ feelings aside, he starts writing down Eddie’s favorite songs, adds a couple of his own in there, and a couple from _Spaghetti Head_ , because maybe that’s a little bit of Eddie’s too, and it’s a pretty good start.

Now he just has to finish it.

+++

Richie has (another) bad habit of getting in his car and just driving whenever he feels the urge. He’ll drive all over town, sometimes drive to another town, just because he feels like he needs to, or because he needs the peace that comes with being on the road. And when he’s reached his quota, he’ll pull over, wherever he is, and lay down on top of his car and listen to the radio and stare up at the sky. It’s one of his favorite things to do, right up there with sitting on his roof.

He never brings people with him, and he doesn’t even think any of his friends know about his habit, but today’s a special occasion.

Eddie once told Richie that he has a natural thrum of energy underneath his skin, a current that runs at all times. He meant it anxiety-wise. Richie has that same thrum, but his is this strong impulse that propels him and drives him forward. There are often days where he feels like he could burst out of his body, like billions of galaxies are contained inside him and he needs to expel them back into the universe. Today is one of those days.

So as soon as he and Eddie get in the car after track practice—which was absolute torture for Richie, who had nothing to do but sit there and bounce his leg up and down and listen to his Walkman and wait—he chooses a random mixtape and turns the radio up high and takes off.

Eddie doesn’t question anything until they pass his street.

“Uh, Richie? Where are you going?”

“Strap in, Spaghetti, we’re going on an adventure.”

Eddie gawks at him. “What? No! No way! Richie, turn around! I have to get home before my mom—”

“We’ll call her from a payphone, Eds, it’ll be fine.”

“Are you out of your mind?! And don’t call me that!”

Richie sighs and makes a right turn randomly. Eddie makes a weak yelping noise, probably because the turn was not smooth at all and they almost hit the stop sign.

“It’ll be fine, Eddie, I do this all the time.”

“What the hell are you—what’s going on? Are you okay? Is this something we need to talk about?” Eddie’s getting all concerned now and Richie rolls his eyes, because of course Eddie’s freaking out over nothing, and that is so not something he needs right now.

“No, I’m just—” The thrum is still present. He feels like a livewire, like a meteor in orbit, burning up and burning bright. “I’m just having a day. I just need to drive. I’ll take you home if you want.”

He starts to make a U-turn, but Eddie speaks up, albeit a little awkwardly.

“N-no, no… It’s fine. Let’s just… Find a payphone first.”

They drive around for another 30 minutes before Richie settles on a Waffle House off the main extension that leads toward the highway. Richie slips Eddie some change so Eddie can make the call and goes inside to find them a booth. The thrumming is quieter now, but he still feels like he could run for hours before getting tired. He decides he’ll treat Eddie to a milkshake, though, for being such a good sport.

Eddie comes in a bit later, after Richie’s already ordered the shakes and started drinking his.

“Vanilla?” Eddie questions as he takes a seat across from Richie. He shrugs.

“You’re pretty basic.”

Eddie glares at him and says, “Fuck you,” but starts sipping at the shake anyway.

“What did you tell Mommy dearest?” Richie asks.

“First of all, don’t call her that, and second, I said Stan needed help with his homework and that I didn’t know when I was going to be home.”

Richie laughs. “And what did she say to that?”

“She said I need to be home by 7:30.” Richie laughs harder. “Shut up, asshole!”

“No, no, it’s good, it’s fine. I’ll have you home by 7:30 so she can wipe your ass and tuck you into bed.”

Eddie jumps across the table to punch him, but Richie dodges it. They settle back into their seats, Eddie smiling softly despite himself. They drop the conversation for a couple minutes, drinking their shakes and listening to The Proclaimers play on the jukebox.

“You said you do this all the time,” Eddie says, breaking the silence. It’s not a question.

“Uh, yeah. I guess not all the time, but I do it a lot.”

“Why? You said you’re having a day. What does that mean?”

Richie pauses, thinking over an answer. “You remember when you told me that you have all that energy in you whenever you get anxious?” Eddie nods. “I have that all the time. Some days are better than others, but most of the time I feel like… Like I’m gonna explode if I don’t get out there and do something.”

“Sounds frustrating,” Eddie empathizes with a nod.

“I mean, usually it’s fine and I just talk or whatever and it goes away. But some days the only thing that clears my head is driving. I can’t really explain why; it just makes me feel better.”

Eddie nods again. “I get that. Some days my anxiety is worse than others. Running makes me feel better, though. That’s part of why I joined track.”

Richie looks up at Eddie. “Really? You didn’t tell me that.”

“Some things are hard to talk about,” Eddie replies, and, yeah, he has a great point. There’s definitely things Richie can’t put into words, but they sit on his heart and weigh him down like anchors on ships just trying to float. Maybe it’s talking about them that makes it better, like his talk with Bev and Bill. Maybe if he just opened his mouth and let everything out right now, it would stop hurting so much.

But Eddie’s sitting there, casual and collected, staring at him, like there’s no problems in the world right now, and he… Just can’t. Not now, not here. He’ll try again later.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he decides. There’s a soft look on Eddie’s face, another one that Richie can’t decipher—he thinks he should keep tallies by now, because, boy, that number has to be staggering—and he smiles another little smile at Richie, small and private.

Richie breaks eyes contact first, and he feels like he’s gonna throw up, but he laughs and gestures toward the door.

“Are you ready to go?”

Eddie gives him one last look before finally glancing away and nodding.

“Yeah, sure.”

Richie pays for them both and they get back in the car. Richie starts the car and gestures for Eddie to pick a mixtape.

“Whichever one _feels_ right,” he instructs. Eddie scowls at him.

“How could they feel right? They’re all made of plastic and—”

“Just close your eyes and put your hand out over them and whenever your palm feels warm and tingly, pick that one. Like Tarot cards,” Richie interrupts. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“What would you know about Tarot cards?” He grumbles, but closes his eyes and holds his palm out over the tapes in the footwell. After moving his hand around for a second, he leans down and picks one up, examining the label. He laughs.

“Whaddja get?” Richie asks, leaning over to try and peek at the title. Eddie shakes his head and puts it in the cassette player.

“ _Hazy Cosmic Jive_ with a crude little alien and spaceship and a couple of stars,” he tells him. Richie grins as _Starman_ starts up.

“Perfect.”

They go down the interstate for a few miles before Eddie makes him turn back. They drive the outskirts of Derry and then slowly work their way inward, driving past the Aladdin and Keene’s Drugstore and the public library. They make their way back to the Barrens, driving the length of it, which is Richie’s favorite road to drive. All the trees line up to the side of the road and overhang and look like something from a movie.

They’re driving along this road when Richie sees a familiar turn-out on the right. He takes it, although he’s not quite sure why, because he’s not sure he wants to go down this road, both literally and figuratively.

They start to pull up to the covered bridge and Eddie makes a light-hearted scoffing noise.

“The Kissing Bridge?” His voice kind of sounds weird. “Why’d you bring me to the Kissing Bridge?”

Richie goes across the bridge and pulls over a little bit away from the covering. He puts the car in park and looks at Eddie. His hands are sweating.

“I didn’t bring you to the Kissing Bridge. I drove and we happened to stop at the Kissing Bridge,” he clarifies, but it kind of feels like a lie. Maybe it is. He gets out after having rolled down the windows, without turning the car off, and moves toward the hood of the car. The wooden rails that line the outside of the bridge are covered in hundreds of scratches of initials and hearts, promises that they’ll love each other forever. Richie’s stomach churns.

“Kind of looks like it’s gonna storm,” Eddie says, now out of the car and on the other side of the hood. Richie glances up at the graying sky. It’s later now and the sun’s already started to set; he’ll need to get Eddie home soon.

“Good, we could use a little rain.” Richie climbs up on the hood and lays down, back against the glass, staring up at the sky. After a second, Eddie climbs up and mimics his position. _Rocket Man_ starts playing on the radio.

They lay there for in silence for a few moments before Richie starts singing the lyrics.

“ _And I’m gonna be high/As a kite by then_.”

Eddie looks over at him and smiles, and then joins with, “ _I miss the earth so much/I miss my wife/It’s lonely out in space/On such a timeless flight_.”

Richie grins wildly and they do the chorus together, chuckling as they try to make it all the way through. Richie goes for a high note and misses it completely, and it sends Eddie into a fit of giggles.

Richie thinks that this is easy, this is them. This is what he’s so scared to lose.

“Elton John is a genius,” Eddie says as he collects himself. “He’s one of my absolute favorites.”

“He’s so over-the-top,” Richie replies, just so they have something to argue about, because he likes that part too.

“He is not!” Eddie then reconsiders. “Well, maybe he is, but he’s still incredible. Did you know that he writes all the music to those songs as he’s reading the lyrics for the first time? Just on the spot. How crazy is that.”

“Everybody knows that.” Richie rolls his eyes. “And his songs may be good, but he’s no Kurt Cobain.”

“Oh my God!” Eddie slaps at him. “Stop bringing up Kurt Cobain! And you can’t compare them anyway; they’re two different genres.”

“I can and I will,” Richie says, sticking his tongue out. Eddie rolls his eyes and looks back up at the sky. It’s getting darker, and Richie can see the stars through the trees. This is one of the best parts about the drives: coming and finding a good place to look at the sky and stars afterwards. “Do you ever wonder if there’s stuff out there?”

“Huh?” Eddie looks over at him.

“You know, like aliens or other people or whatever. Starmen, maybe.”

Eddie snorts, looking back up at the sky, shaking his head. “No. There’s so much going on down here that I don’t really care about up there. Not until I figure this stuff out first.”

“Stuff?”

“Life, and everything that comes with it. Friends. Family. School. Love.”

He looks over at Richie again, and Richie feels his heart seize up. He turns his head to stare back.

He sees Eddie’s gaze drop down to his lips and he can’t help but do the same. They haven’t talked about Halloween yet, because Richie’s been too scared, but he’s pretty sure Eddie’s extending an olive branch to him, letting him know that he’s ready to talk about it, or do something about it, rather. Richie thinks he’s ready to take that olive branch.

Eddie gets there first, sitting up and leaning across the hood of the car and into Richie’s space and kissing him so strongly that Richie thinks he might be desperate for it. Richie sits up too, and his hands grab at Eddie’s shirt while Eddie’s go into his hair. He grips on tightly, and he can hear _Space Oddity_ playing in the background, and what a perfect song that is to make out to.

His hands move to Eddie’s waist, and apparently Eddie’s sweater has started riding up, because he can feel hot, smooth skin underneath his fingers and it makes him warm all over. Eddie’s grip in his hair tightens and, wow, Richie’s never felt anything like _that_ before.

He’s not sure how long they make out, though he knows it’s long enough to go through _Space Oddity_ at least. They come up for breath a couple of times too, but it’s only a couple seconds of heavy breathing before they’re going again. It’s also long enough for Richie to feel water droplets on him, not think anything of it, and then, a little bit later, feel thousands of water droplets.

They both pull away when they realize they’re getting soaked. They sit there for a minute in the pouring rain, staring at each other and still breathing pretty heavily, before starting to laugh at the whole situation.

“C’mon,” Richie says when they’ve calmed down. It’s still pouring and now it’s really dark. He’s pretty sure they’ve missed Eddie’s curfew. “Let’s go you home before you catch a cold.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie says, shoving at Richie, but it sounds affectionate. They slid off their respective sides of the hood and get back in the car. Unfortunately, Richie has nothing to cover the seats with, so he’s sure he’s gonna pay for that later.

Eddie strategically avoids the mixtapes with his water-soaked everything and buckles in. Richie’s follows suit, realizing the song that’s playing on the radio. Eddie realizes too and starts laughing.

“ _Moonshadow_? Really? You were judging me about Elton John and you’re listening to Cat fucking Stevens?”

“Shut the fuck up, Kaspbrak,” Richie warns, which makes Eddie start laughing hysterically. Richie rolls his eyes fondly and starts the car, turning the radio up just to make Eddie laugh again.

He’s not sure where this puts them, but he doesn’t think it’s a bad place to be.

+++

November passes quickly, and suddenly they’re up to the day before Thanksgiving Break. It’s started to snow by now, but it’s not too heavy. Richie likes the cold, actually, and though he bundles up because he’s not a total moron, he doesn’t wear nearly as many layers as Stan or Eddie, who both loathe the cold and constantly grumble about it.

It’s Tuesday, and they’re literally hours away from a blissful five day weekend, filled with delicious ham and turkey and stuffing and—God, Richie’s mouth is literally watering thinking about it.

He and Eddie still haven’t talked about the kiss—or, rather, the kisses—but Eddie’s asked about the mixtape. Richie just keeps telling him that greatness takes time, but he’s getting nervous. He hasn’t worked on it for over two weeks, and it’s nowhere near complete. It’s honestly just a bunch of random songs, and Richie doesn’t want Eddie’s mixtape to be like that. He wants there to be a story, a narrative, something to think about while you’re listening to the songs. But he’s so stumped.

He’s mulling it over and shoving books into his locker, listening to music on his Walkman, when someone pushes him from behind, careening him forward into the metal shelf, which, of course, hits perfectly on the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck!” He exclaims, hand flying up to check the damage. It hurts like a bitch and there’s a tiny bit of blood, but not enough to leave a scar or require stitches or anything crazy. He turns around to see Henry Bowers grinning at him like a loon.

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending how you look at it, the hallway’s pretty deserted and it’s just Henry and Richie staring at each other. The rest of Henry’s gang are nowhere to be seen, which is nice, but there’s also no other students or teachers to help, though the students would probably just clap and cheer at the violence.

“What the fuck was that for?” Richie demands, adjusting his glasses. They don’t feel broken, but he really can’t be sure until he gets to a mirror.

“Heard you like _Street Fighter_ , right?” Henry says instead of answering. Richie furrows his eyebrows.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“My cousin said he saw you and B-B-Billy at the Aladdin. Heard you talking about something quite interesting. Said you were making eyes at him, too.”

“What the fuck?”

And then it clicks: the semi-mullet kid. He looked familiar because he looks a helluva lot like Henry. He might’ve heard the whole conversation Richie had with Bill. Richie’s eyes widen in shock and realization.

Henry reaches out and shoves Richie into the lockers, and his locker is still open, so the back of his head just hits the metal shelf. He tries not to groan. Henry gets a hand around his throat.

“I don’t like fucking faggots in my town,” Henry hisses. His hand is digging into Richie’s throat, enough that it feels like he can’t breathe. He grabs at Henry’s hands to try to alleviate some of the pressure. “You’re just a fucking fairy, a weirdo _loser_ that doesn’t belong anywhere. No one will ever love you. You know and I _knew_ you were queer long before you came to your girlfriend’s rescue in the locker room. And now you’re trying to put your disgusting moves out on my cousin. You’re revolting!”

_And that’s probably the biggest word you know_ , Richie thinks as Henry’s other hand comes up to punch him. His head knocks back into that metal shelf again, shaking it and rattling his books together. His nose is definitely bleeding now.

“You and Wheezy, you both want it, dontcha? Not enough fucking each other, you gotta go lust after the other little boys, after my cousin, after _me_. Oh-ho, I see the way you look at me.”

Richie recalls when Henry said that in the locker room, though it was directed at Eddie. That was right before he came in and tackled Henry. And then Mr. Douglas saved _his_ ass and pulled Henry off. But Mr. Douglas isn’t here, and neither is Eddie, and no one’s coming in to save him now.

He loses track of how many times Henry hits him before one of his lenses break and a tiny piece of glass embeds itself in his cheek. He’s gasping for breath when Henry throws him on the ground, and he hears his Walkman hit the floor—and dear God, please let it be okay; he drops it all the time, please don’t let this be what finally breaks the damn thing—and he thinks that just might be it, he might finally walk away, but then Henry’s kicking him, hard enough the first time that it sends him back into the lockers again.

When Henry finally lets up on the kicking—after, again, who knows how long—he kneels down to lean over Richie. He grabs the front of his shirt collar and hoists him a bit off the ground.

“If I ever catch wind of your flamer ass again, I won’t be so nice,” Henry spits. Then he raises his fist and punches Richie so hard it knocks him back down to the floor, his head cracking on the tiles. Henry rises, kicks him one last time for good measure, and starts to saunter off before he spots Richie’s Walkman. Richie reaches out for it, but Henry’s too quick, and he crushes it beneath his heel, definitely ruining the tape inside too. He smirks down at Richie.

“ _Loser_ ,” he hisses, and right now, it feels like the biggest insult Richie’s ever received.

Richie lies there long after Henry walks away, up until the bell rings and classes start to let out. Then he clambers to his feet, a little dizzy and totally blind, and slams his locker shut, leaning down to pick up the mangled Walkman. He knows he should go to the nurse or the bathroom or somewhere to clean up, but he thinks that if he has to spend one more minute in this school, he might actually lose his mind.

He gets his keys and goes straight to his car, only stopping when he passes a trash can to throw the Walkman away. He drives home blind, not bothering to find Eddie and let him know that he won’t be giving him a ride today.

He doesn’t much care, at this point.

+++

He pouts all of Thanksgiving Break. After going home on that Tuesday, he went upstairs and cleaned his face in the bathroom, digging the piece of glass out of his cheek with his fingers. He took a shower to get all the blood and dirt and whatever off of him, and noticed that his stomach, mostly his right side, was already starting to bruise, dark blue and purple, ugly bruises.

He tries not to look at himself in the mirror after that.

His parents ask about it, but when Richie tries to think of something, or make a joke or anything to divert their attention, his emotions get the best of him and he just starts crying. So his mom buys him new glasses without complaint and his dad tries to get him to say who did it, but he refuses, because, honestly, what good would that do?

He doesn’t tell them about the Walkman, though. He’s too heartbroken over that. The only good thing is that the tape inside wasn’t an important one, just another one of his random messes. At least it wasn’t _Spaghetti Head_. That’s all Richie’s grateful for.

His friends call several times. After the first few times Maggie or Went approaches with the telephone, and Richie says no, they stop approaching him at all. Slowly, the calls filter out.

Maggie declares that they’re going to stay home for Thanksgiving, rather than drive to his grandma’s house in Portland, so they all sit in the dining room and eat and try not to talk about why Richie has trouble leaning over or moving a certain way, or why his face is all bruised up and his lip is swollen, or why he has a Band-Aid on his left cheek and the glasses he’s wearing now aren’t the ones he was wearing two days ago, or why he really won’t smile, even when his dad starts trying to mimic his Voices.

He spends the three days after that laying around in his room, moping and pretending that he doesn’t exist. He wants to say he doesn’t know why he’s so hurt by what Henry said, or that Henry’s wrong, but he’s kind of not.

Richie doesn’t know what he is, but he’s not straight and he likes boys—he likes Eddie. And maybe it’s wrong, he doesn’t know, but Henry’s right about him not belonging. He’s always felt different in life, even when around his friends, who are all self-proclaimed losers and misfits. But Richie’s always been _different_ different, in a way he doesn’t understand and can’t explain. He tries so hard to fit in with everybody else, making himself loud and over-the-top and constantly drawing attention to himself and to the parts he can control so no one looks deeper, beneath the surface, and sees all the bits of himself that he can’t control or doesn’t know how to.

He thought he hid it so well, that no one would ever find out, but here’s Henry Bowers of all people saying all these things about Richie that are so grossly true that it burns like acid down his throat, misplaced guilt coating his insides and making him sick. And if Henry Bowers can figure that kind of stuff out, what about his friends? His parents? Eddie?

The idea makes him nauseous, or more nauseous, really. Can they all see what he can’t, or what he chooses to ignore? Can they tell when he’s covering something up? When it’s an off day? When he’s hiding another aspect of himself that he’s too scared to bring to light?

And, moreover, what about what Henry said about him finding love? That he would never love anyone—no, that no one would ever love _him_. That hurts more. Because who _would_ love him? On top of all his natural defects, he also has the cool feature of being not straight, which means that _maybe_ he could fall in love with a girl, but there’ll always be something in him that likes boys, and what girl would be cool with that? Bev and Betsy, probably, but they’re with Ben and Mike, and Richie sees them as good friends, if not family, instead. And what if he doesn’t like girls at all? Is he supposed to find some effeminate man to be his “girlfriend?” Or, no, that’s not right because they’d both be boys, but still. Or, oh, is he the effeminate man? He’s not even sure how that works, who is who in a gay relationship. Not to mention gay sex. The whole idea of having sex with another man makes him feel hot and cold at the same time.

Would he have to be the one giving it to the other guy? Would the other guy give it to him? Would he like that? Would he like it so much that he could never go back to the way he was before? Does that make him less of a man if he likes it? What if he doesn’t like it? Does that mean he’s not gay enough? Is that even a thing?

His head and heart hurt from all this thinking. All he’s doing is stabbing more daggers into his open wounds, and everything’s sort of spiraling and he doesn’t know what to do.

But he’s Richie Tozier, Trashmouth Extraordinaire, so he lets himself mope the rest of the break and vows to come back to school on Monday like nothing happened.

That’s the plan, anyway.

+++

He drives to Eddie’s house Monday and beeps his horn three times to let him know he’s here. He smokes a cigarette while he waits, and ends up waiting long enough to actually finish the thing, and then wait some more. He beeps his horn again and decides to wait another two minutes before he gets out, grumbling, and makes his way up to the house.

He knocks on the door rapidly and is greeted by Sonia Kaspbrak less than ten seconds later.

“Hey, Mrs. K, is Eddie awake yet?”

Sonia’s eyebrows pull together. “Oh, no, he got a ride from that nice boy Ben, did he not tell you?”

Richie exhales slowly before shaking his head. “No, uh, no, he didn’t tell me.”

“Well, he’s already left.”

_No shit, Sherlock_ , Richie wants to say, but he holds it back because he’s pretty sure that wouldn’t be conducive in any way. Instead, he gives Sonia his best smile.

“Thank you, Mrs. K. I really appreciate it.”

“Mmm-hm.” She pretty much shuts the door in his face, but Richie just grits his teeth and gets back in his car.

Why the fuck would Eddie not try to call him or tell him that he’s getting a ride with Ben? Richie doesn’t care that he’s getting a different ride, but Eddie could’ve at least said something. Granted, Richie hasn’t been picking the phone up recently, but that’s beside the point.

He can’t figure out why, but it feels like a betrayal for some reason. And it doesn’t help him in any way; instead, it just makes him really, _really_ mad.

When he gets to school, not even having turned on his radio during the journey, he immediately stalks off to the staircase to find Eddie. And he’s standing there, laughing with everyone else, like everything’s normal and cool. Richie grits his teeth.

“Hey, can I talk to you?” Richie demands as soon as he gets close enough for Eddie to hear without him shouting. He must say it a little too aggressively—oh, yeah, and his face still isn’t properly healed, so he probably looks crazy—because Eddie is whipping around to glare at him. His glare fades, however, when he sees the bruises decorating Richie’s skin, the cuts on his nose and lip and cheek.

“Whoa, what the fuck happened to you?” Eddie says with no grace whatsoever, but there’s still a hint of concern in his tone. Richie laughs hollowly and grabs Eddie’s arm, pulling him away from the group and into the corner by the trashcan, where no one can really see them. Eddie’s protests the whole way, until Richie rounds on him.

“Were you planning on telling me that you didn’t need a ride? Or were you just gonna let me look like a total jackass?”

Then Eddie gets angry. “What? What the fuck are you on about? _You’re_ the one who’s been M.I.A. these past couple days. _You’re_ the one who left me stranded on Tuesday without telling me you couldn’t take me. _You’re_ the one who’s been acting weird!”

“Oh, _me_? Really? That’s fucking rich. You’ve been so weird these past couple months!”

“Weird? How the hell have _I_ been weird?!”

“You’re always talking in circles and giving me these looks and then with the whole Halloween thing—”

“What the fuck, Richie, that was for a game,” Eddie splutters defensively.

“Oh, sure it was, Eddie, and the locker room was just a game too?” Eddie shifts uncomfortably. “The hammock? The rooftop? The dancing? The _bridge_?!”

“Fuck you!” Eddie exclaims, getting up in Richie’s face. “And don’t you dare pretend like you didn’t—like you weren’t—”

“What, into it?” Eddie’s face gets all red, and Richie’s so frustrated with everything that he just seals his fate. “I wasn’t, not like you were. I’m not like _that_.”

It’s a low blow and entirely not true, and Richie’s not even sure that Eddie is like _that_ , but he knows that’ll piss him off, so he says it. And it works.

“That’s fucking bullshit!” Eddie snaps, shoving Richie. It’s not hard enough that he hits the wall behind him, but he definitely does stumble. “That’s such fucking bullshit! You and I are exactly the same! Only I’m not afraid to admit it! You’re so goddamn scared of who you are that you cover it up with your dumb fucking jokes and one-liners because you can’t admit the truth to yourself. And I’m sick of it.” Eddie shakes his head, backing up a bit, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re supposed to be—you’re supposed to be my friend, my _best_ friend. You’re supposed to notice. You’re supposed to—”

“Feel the same way?” Richie supplies. “Well, I don’t, Eddie. So stop forcing yourself onto me.”

Eddie recoils like Richie’s slapped him. He swallows hard and looks down at his shoes for a moment before looking back up at Richie. There are tears in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry that I forced me and my _feelings_ onto you or—or that I’m too _weird_ for you. You don’t need to ever fucking worry about me again.” He starts to leave and then turns back around. “And in case it’s not crystal fucking clear, I don’t need a goddamn ride today.”

And then he leaves, taking Richie’s heart with him.

+++

Richie skips the rest of the day, doesn’t even bother to go back in the direction of his friends, instead just heading out to the student parking lot and getting in his car. He finds his angriest mixtape and turns the radio up as loud as it goes. He doesn’t go home, because he knows he’ll just feel trapped, so he heads to the Barrens, taking the longest route possible, avoiding the Kissing Bridge, and chain smoking cigarettes as he goes.

There’s a six-pack in his trunk from Halloween, and though he’s not sure if beer actually expires, he knows it’ll probably be all gross and maybe warm. He drinks all six anyway.

He’s not sure how much time he wastes, smoking and drinking and trying not to think about his life. But when the sun starts to set, and when the cold starts really setting in, he figures he should probably get home.

Maggie asks where he’s been and tells him that all his friends have been calling and looking for him. She says that he should call them back and let them know that he’s okay, and that she wants to know what the hell he’s been doing for the past few hours. He lies and tells her he was with Eddie, and her face softens. God, was it really that noticeable, the thing between him and Eddie? He supposes that it is, or that it was, and that he knew that his parents knew, but it’s still shocking to see.

He goes upstairs and sits on his bed for over an hour, staring off into space and replaying the fight in his mind. He’s just so frustrated, so fucking angry with the world, and Eddie is confusing him, and he has no idea what to do about anything. And he didn’t mean to get all upset about the stupid fucking Ben picking Eddie up thing because it’s not a big deal at all and he did ditch Eddie on Tuesday, but, God, he’s just so done with everything. It’s like a cycle that never ends, it just keeps going and going and going, and Richie feels like he’s gonna crack.

He decides that, although he is Richie Tozier, Trashmouth Extraordinaire, he needs a fucking break.

+++

He doesn’t see his friends for a full week, that’s how long they give him to wallow. He doesn’t go to the stairwell, doesn’t take anyone’s calls, doesn’t do much of anything other than sit on his roof and smoke and listen to the stupid _Spaghetti Head_ mixtape via the stereo in his room and an open window, considering his fucking Walkman is now probably sitting mangled in the city dump. His anger’s pretty much gone now, though, and he just feels really, really sad.

He’s not sure who he expected to come to him first. Normally, it probably would’ve been Eddie. But this situation isn’t normal in the slightest.

He is, however, confused when Mike’s head pops over the side of his roof.

“Hey man,” he says casually, and continues hoisting himself up the column that connects the roof to the front porch. Richie watches in fascination.

“Uh, hey.”

Mike climbs over the side and crawls over next to Richie. It’s entirely too cold for them to be on the roof, and Richie’s currently sitting on a lawn chair that’s starting to freeze, but he doesn’t have a second one for Mike. Mike, however, doesn’t seem to mind, and instead sits on his window sill, which doesn’t really work because he has to lean forward and put his elbows on his knees in order to fit, but he doesn’t complain.

“So,” Mike starts, “this is where you’ve been moping. A dope place to mope.”

Richie stares at Mike, bewildered by the whole interaction.

“What the fuck is happening right now? Am I dreaming? Is this a fever dream?” He asks.

“Do your dreams often contain me?”

“Only the good ones,” Richie teases. Mike wrinkles his nose, and Richie is grateful because the banter is familiar and comfortable, a subject he’s okay with broaching.

“Are you ready to talk about it?” Mike asks, and, yeah, Richie kind of figured he wouldn’t get to have it his way.

“No,” he admits.

“Well, too bad. I’m sick of listening to Eddie whimper and pine, and none of those other fraidy cats were gonna come over here and do something.”

“What? Why would they be afraid?”

“They think they’ll incur the wrath of Eddie, but he’s like, what, 5’4” on a good day, and maybe a buck twenty soaking wet. I think I’ll be okay.”

Richie snickers. “Just because he’s small doesn’t mean he’s not a mean little bastard. He’ll getcha, y’know.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m more worried about you and the shame spiral you’ve lost yourself in.”

“Well, damn, Mikey. Please, don’t hold back.”

“C’mon, Rich, I’m concerned for you. Seriously, we all are. Even those who refuse to admit it because they’re just as stubborn as you.”

“There’s nothing to be concerned about, Mike. I’m the pinnacle of good health. Everything’s in working order. I can feel all my fingers and toes.”

Mike sighs. “Richie, did you know that when we first met, I didn’t really like you?”

Richie throws his hands up, ash jumping off his cigarette. “Oh, yeah, like that’s gonna boost my confidence!”

“You were an asshole,” Mike continues, not giving a shit. “Still are, actually. You were rude and you said rude shit and you couldn’t stop making derogatory jokes about literally everyone, even people you claimed to be your friends, and you—”

“Fuck, I get it, Michael! I’m the worst! You really don’t have to spell it out!”

“ _But_ ,” Mike says, tapping Richie’s knee, “the one thing about you that I saw back then was that, no matter what, you cared about your friends. You covered it up under all your jokes and comments and remarks, but whenever we needed you, you were always there. When Eddie broke his arm, when Stan had his bar mitzvah, hell, even when Bev got her first period.”

Richie laughs despite himself. He remembers Bev coming up to him in the hallway, angling her back so that it faced the lockers, almost in tears, telling Richie that she was bleeding _down there_ and she didn’t know what to do. Richie had been so scared—because he was a kid, he hardly knew what a period was—but he took off his jacket and tied it around her waist and walked her to the nurse’s office as calmly as he could. That was the first time she kissed him, sitting on the maroon plastic chairs and waiting for the nurse to come back with “lady products.” She had leaned over and planted one on him, and though he liked it, he knew at that moment that there would never be anything like _that_ between them.

“You’re a great friend, Rich, and a good guy. You were back then and you still are now. I don’t know what’s been going on with you lately, and it’s really not my business, but I think you needed to hear that. You and I haven’t always been close, but it’s important that you know that we need you. There would be no Loser’s Club without Richie Tozier.”

Richie buries his face in his hands so Mike doesn’t see him get all teary. Mike rubs his back as he tries to force the emotions down.

“Eddie didn’t tell us what happened, but it’s not that hard to guess. I know that you like him—I mean, it’s kind of plain to see—but I’m assuming you failed at properly communicating that and probably wound up insulting him as a defense mechanism.”

“Jeez, am I that transparent?”

“Richie, you’re practically Cellophane to us.” Richie snorts and wipes his nose. “’Least this way you don’t have to pay for therapy when you’re older.”

“Oh, joy.”

Mike sobers up again. “Look, I can’t tell you what to do, or what’s right or wrong, or how to fix any of this. That’s all on you. But I can say that you liking Eddie is not the end of the world. Not to me, not to our friends, and certainly not to Eddie. There’s always gonna be people out there who dislike you. Being—well, whatever you happen to be—is not going to change that. You can’t control them, only yourself.”

Richie sniffles, nods, and looks at Mike. “You think I should apologize, though? I mean, isn’t that what you’re trying to say?”

“Well, I’m trying to give you love and acceptance, but, yes, I also think you should apologize to him.”

“What would I even say? I mean, I’m not sure where to start.”

“Just be you. Well, be the good parts of you.”

“What the _fuck_ does that mean?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “It means do something that comes naturally to you. Some big, dumb apology isn’t gonna work if it’s not what you would normally do; Eddie will see right through it.”

“Like Cellophane,” Richie murmurs, scratching at his jaw.

“Yeah, sure,” Mike agrees reluctantly. “Point is: it’s not very Richie Tozier to sit around and mope about what he could have done different, or why his life sucks so bad. The Richie Tozier I know would get off his ass and go make amends. He’d be a loud-mouthed idiot to everyone he loves and prove just why they love him. So you can be this guy that sits in a lawn chair on his roof in December and chain smokes, or you can be Richie motherfucking Tozier. The choice is yours.”

Richie clenches his jaw and hesitates a moment. Then he extinguishes his cigarette in the snow and stands, gesturing for Mike to stand too. Mike gets up and immediately crushes him in a bear hug.

“Don’t be a dumbass, okay?” He says. Richie nods, slapping him on the back a couple of times.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

+++

He doesn’t know how “Richie Tozier” would apologize. Well, he probably wouldn’t. But this sort of rift can’t be glazed over. He’s gotta figure out some way to apologize, something to show that he actually does give a shit and that he didn’t mean any of the shit he said.

He turns the idea over for a couple days, mainly thinking about it over the weekend. And he’s absolutely stumped until Sunday afternoon when he finally decides to clean his bedroom—because, honestly, the mess was becoming unbearable and he couldn’t even see the floor.

He’s clearing clothes off his desk when a couple of mixtapes tumble to the ground. He bends down and examines the names on the cassettes; notably, there’s _Hazy Cosmic Jive_ with a crude little alien and spaceship and a couple of stars, and _Are You Tough Enough_ with seven exclamation points in various colors, some squiggles, some spirals, and a couple of stars there too. They’d gotten from his car to his room after the night on the Kissing Bridge, when Richie started to make a half-assed attempt to clean out his car and get water off everything, and gave up.

But it gives him an idea.

He sets to work, digging around his room to find those pieces of paper he started making just after Halloween. He finds the notecards and the sheet under his bed—which, how the hell did they end up under there?—and sets everything down at his newly cleaned desk. He puts on _Are You Tough Enough_ , because he needs Ben’s spirit right about now, and lights a cigarette.

Once he gets started, and in the zone, it comes pretty easily to him. He thinks _oh, this’ll work, especially if I add that or those or these!_ And it’s kind of like breathing. He references _Spaghetti Head_ a lot more than he means to, but it works in his favor.

He spends the entirety of Sunday afternoon and night thinking of songs and recording them onto a fresh cassette. By sometime in the early morning, he has a finished tape. He writes the name on it and places it on his nightstand so he’ll remember it in the morning.

He goes to bed feeling better than he has in a while.

+++

The drive to school the next day is silent. He’s so nervous that he can’t bring himself to play any music. He’d rather just sit there in silence and pray that what he’s doing is right.

But he remembers what Mike said.

_Just be you. Well, be the good parts of you_.

Richie’s still not sure what the “good parts” of him entail, but Mike has a point. Richie Tozier wouldn’t sit around and mope. So he’s sticking with his plan and hoping for the best.

All he can do is try.

He heads straight to the North staircase, cassette tucked safely in his coat pocket. It’s practically burning a hole straight through him, but he soldiers on.

Eddie’s back is to him as he approaches. Mike spots him first and smirks, giving him a little head nod. Then Betsy, who gives a little thumbs up, and Bev, who beams, and Bill and Stan and Ben and then—

Eddie turns around to see what everyone’s looking at. Richie swallows the lump in his throat and gives him an unsure smile. Eddie glares back.

“Can I talk to you?” Richie asks. Eddie scoffs.

“Do I have a choice this time, or are you gonna drag me away again?”

“Of course you have a choice.”

Eddie narrows his eyes and stares for another long moment before he storms past Richie. But rather than going out the door, he merely heads toward the corner by the trashcan. Richie starts to follow, but catches Bev’s eye as he goes to pass.

_Good luck_ , she mouths. He smiles at her, chest tight, and follows Eddie.

They stand in the corner for a moment while Richie collects his thoughts. He should’ve brought the damn notecards.

“Well? Are you gonna say something?” Eddie demands. He has every right to be bitchy, but it’s really setting Richie on edge even more. He sucks in a breath.

“Y-yeah, I—” He exhales. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.” He clears his throat and continues. “I’m sorry for what I said and how I was acting, and it was just a really dick move on my part—”

“Yeah, it was,” Eddie agrees, arms crossed over his chest. He looks no less pissed, but Richie continues on.

“I’m sorry that I lashed out at you. It was just a shitty week and all this stuff was happening a-and that’s not an excuse and I didn’t mean to take my feelings out on you. And I didn’t mean any of what I said. Any of it. I was just blowing smoke.”

Eddie stares up at him, not saying anything for a long while. Richie doesn’t want to keep apologizing, because he’s confident that’ll just piss Eddie off, but he wants Eddie to say something before he lays the rest of his cards down.

“That’s a pretty weak apology,” Eddie says at last. “And what you said is—is unforgivable and was totally uncalled for.” Richie hangs his head, trying to swallow down the feelings that are rushing to the surface. He’s never this emotional. Maybe Eddie just brings this out in him.

“I know, Eddie, and I’m so goddamn sorry that I—”

“ _But_ ,” Eddie interrupts, stern yet understanding all at once, “I appreciate the apology. And I’m sorry that you had a shitty week, but you could’ve just talked to me. I would’ve been there, dumbass.”

“I know that.” Richie looks up at Eddie. “I know that, I just—God, I don’t know, I… I had previously realized some things about myself that kinda fucked me up, y’know? And then Bowers—”

“What? What did Bowers do?” Eddie asks, eyebrows pulling together.

“He attacked me. That’s why I was all beat up. Broke my glasses, gave me bruises all over my face and stomach, smashed my Walkman, the whole kit and caboodle.”

“Holy shit, Rich. He broke your Walkman? You love that thing. Why didn’t you say anything? When did this happen?”

Richie nods. “The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, when I left you high and dry. He found me during my free period and attacked me in the hallway. Obliterated the Walkman, too, I had to trash it.”

“Wait, what the fuck did he attack you for?”

“He—he thought I was making eyes at his cousin—his _male_ cousin. Or that’s what his cousin claimed or whatever. Bowers called me—well, colorful names and beat my ass into a bloody pulp, so, yeah, I wasn’t too keen on sharing with the class.”

Eddie makes a sympathetic face. “Richie, I’m sorry. I… I should’ve been there. Like you were there for me—”

“You had class, first of all, and second, what would you have done? He would’ve kicked both our asses. It’s no big deal, anyway, he’s kind of right, isn’t he? I mean, I think I’ve got that sorted now.”

“Right about what?” Eddie looks confused.

“I think I am a bit like _that_. I don’t really know how much, or if I’m full on, or whatever, but I’m a little queer, at least.”

Saying it feels like an elephant has gotten up off his chest and found somewhere else to sit. He has to say it quietly, though, because who knows who could hear them right now, but it’s still empowering nonetheless. A moment he wasn’t expecting to have, or to let himself have.

Eddie looks astonished.

“Wow, you’re just—okay, wow,” he says. Richie smiles wide.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“That’s really big, Richie. That’s… Good for you. I’m proud of you. Thank you for telling me.”

Richie just smiles down at Eddie, then laughs a little. “How did my apology to you turn into me coming out?”

Eddie laughs loudly, and it sounds a little like relief. “I’m not too sure. We do tend to do that, though. Get distracted.”

“Mainly by one another,” Richie adds. Eddie’s smile falls slightly and he looks away at the brick wall.

Right. There’s still _that_.

“Eddie, I really didn’t mean what I said. _Any_ of it. Those revelations I mentioned, they weren’t just about me. They were also about you.”

Eddie looks back at him, but Richie can see the uncertainty in his eyes.

“I just—I thought we were friends,” Richie says with a laugh. Eddie furrows his eyebrows. “And we were and everything was totally fine and anything I might’ve felt I just wrote it off as weird and pretended it didn’t happen. But then it kept happening, and you were saying stuff that kinda sounded like you meant something else, and there were these looks and touches and then we—Halloween happened and then the bridge happened, and I thought, you know, _maybe this is it, maybe I’ve finally figured out what’s supposed to be happening_. But you’re just so hard to read and I couldn’t gauge what you meant half the time and it was just so _confusing_ and I’m still kinda confused, I guess, but also not really because I think I know what this is and I just really hope I’m not the only one who feels it. I’m hoping you feel it too.”

Eddie looks taken aback, and maybe slightly hopeful, and opens his mouth before thinking better of it and shuts it again. Then he waits a couple seconds, still staring at Richie, and then opens his mouth again.

“Half of the shit that comes out of your mouth is unintelligible.”

Richie laughs, a wave of relief flooding over him. It’s so _Eddie_ that it cements in Richie’s head the belief that they may walk away from this okay.

“Yeah, well, I am a Trashmouth,” he teases.

“You absolutely are,” Eddie says endearingly. Then he shrugs. “Maybe what you were feeling, or picking up from me, was exactly what it was supposed to be. The way you interpreted it was how it was meant to be interpreted. Maybe I wanted… More Halloweens and bridges to happen. I mean, I thought I spelled it out pretty clear on the bridge.”

Richie exhales a laugh and nods. So maybe they’ll walk away from this more than okay.

“I finally finished it,” Richie says instead of responding to Eddie. He fishes the cassette out of his pocket and holds it up. “I’m sorry it took so long. I couldn’t figure out what I wanted to say.”

Eddie smiles softly. “And you’ve figured it out now?”

“The tape says it all,” Richie replies, handing it to Eddie. Eddie takes it and reads the name, lets out a little laugh.

“ _As You Are_ with… twenty-two red hearts.” He looks up at Richie, and there’s this little shine in his eyes. “It’s a good title.”

“It’s yours. It’s… It’s how you make me feel. That’s what I’ve really figured out.”

“I’ll listen to it as soon as I can,” Eddie promises.

Richie wants to kiss him so bad that it aches in his bones. But they’re at school and while he knows that Eddie’s just laid everything down and basically spelled out what he’s been feeling, Richie still wants them to talk a little more, preferably in private where they can actually say what they mean and not just dance around the topic in fear of someone overhearing.

“We should join the others,” he says instead. But Eddie doesn’t look disappointed, instead just nods and carefully pockets the cassette.

“Lead the way.”

Richie and Eddie rejoin the group, and though everyone smiles at them when they appear, no one says anything about it. They’re all pretty cool like that.

+++

Richie doesn’t give Eddie a ride home that day, but it’s not because Eddie’s mad anymore. Richie just needs the silence again.

He lays in his bed for a few hours after school and revels in the quiet. His mind has been so loud lately that he appreciates times like these where there’s nothing going on, nothing to bother or distract him. He feels peaceful.

And then there’s quick raps on the door.

“Yeah, s’open,” he murmurs after a moment. Both of his parents would’ve opened the door after knocking, so he’s not sure who it could possibly be.

The door is thrown open and Eddie stands there, looking very flustered, holding his mixtape. Richie raises an eyebrow and starts to sit up.

“Eds? What’s wro—”

Suddenly, Eddie is throwing himself practically on top of Richie and kissing him strongly, dropping the cassette in order to grab his face with both hands. Richie makes a noise of surprise, but quickly gets with the program and grabs Eddie’s thigh, pulling so Eddie’s straddling Richie. Practically every inch of them is plastered together, at least from waist up. Richie grips tightly onto both of Eddie’s legs as Eddie’s hands wander up into Richie’s curls.

Eddie pulls away what must be minutes later, after both of them are flushed and panting.

“What the fuck—” Richie starts to ask, but Eddie just shakes his head.

“That mixtape—what the fuck was that?”

“What the fuck was _that_?” Richie demands about their kiss.

“Those songs, Richie, and what you said at the end—”

“There was, like, a couple minutes left on the tape and I was afraid I hadn’t made my point clear enough for you.”

“You are absolutely unbelievable.” Eddie leans down and kisses Richie passionately again, though just for a moment. He pulls away and sits back up. “That was—that was—”

“Didja like it?”

“Richie… Did you mean it?” Eddie asks hopefully. Richie throws his hands up in the air.

“No, I just pretty much told you that I loved you and I didn’t mean a single word.”

“Don’t even joke with me right now, Rich. That’s a lot to say. You don’t even—”

“Eds, I’m pretty sure I’m gay. Or maybe bisexual. That and the fact that I have very strong feelings for you, particularly love feelings, are the two things about myself I am most confident in. Well, now I am, at least, I wasn’t, like, a couple days ago. But, yeah, no, I’ve definitely liked you for a lot longer than this year, longer than I think I’d like to admit—because, seriously, I’ve probably liked you the entire time we’ve known each other—and you were right. I’m terrified to admit that. But, like Bevvie said, I’ve gotta have hope that one day it won’t be scary anymore.”

Eddie stares at him, stunned. “Wow,” he says after a moment. “That’s… Really fucking mature of you, Rich.”

“Yeah, well, that’s me, Richie “Mature” Tozier.”

Eddie laughs. “No one’s ever called you that in your life.”

“You just did, Spaghetti, or do you have a goldfish brain up there?”

Richie raises a finger up to Eddie’s forehead to poke at it and Eddie slaps his hand away. Richie turns it into a hand hold, though, because he’s smooth like that. Eddie lets him.

“I’m gay too,” Eddie says casually, like it’s not a big deal. And maybe it isn’t. Maybe he’s had the right idea all along, Richie was just too blind to see it. And, ha, isn’t that ironic?

“That’s pretty cool,” Richie replies, thumb absentmindedly running across Eddie’s knuckles. Eddie slaps Richie’s stomach with his free hand. “Ow! What the fuck was that for?”

“You’re supposed to say something supportive, asshole! I just came out to you! That’s a big deal!”

“I’m proud of you?” Eddie slaps him again. “Eds, what the fuck?!”

“Stop calling me that! And you’re not being very supportive!”

“You slapping me is not very supportive either!”

“You’re supposed to be a supportive boyfriend!” Eddie exclaims, but Richie doesn’t fumble, because he gets it now.

“How can I be when you won’t stop hitting me?!”

Eddie makes a move to slap at him again and Richie tackles him, sending them careening over the side of the bed, Eddie dissolving into a fit of giggles.

They don’t get up for a long time.

+++

Eddie invites him to hang out at Bill’s house afterwards. Apparently they were supposed to go to the Clubhouse, but it’s just too cold to go out there right now. Richie drives and Eddie puts _As You Are_ in the cassette player.

_Elton’s Song_ starts up, and Eddie gestures to the radio.

“I don’t get why you started with this song,” Eddie admits. Richie shrugs a shoulder.

“It’s about a teenage boy being terrified of loving another teenage boy. I thought it fit pretty well.”

Eddie hums. “I guess I didn’t really know that.”

“You called yourself an Elton fan and you don’t even know the meaning behind his songs?” Richie asks, fake affronted. “How dare you!”

“Oh, shut up!”

They listen in silence for a moment before Eddie looks over at him again.

“I don’t know what kicked your ass into gear, but I’m glad it did. I’ve missed you.”

“Aw, Eds, don’t get all weepy on me now!”

“Shut up, asshole.” Eddie rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. Richie smiles.

“I missed you too, Spaghetti.”

Eddie tries not to let Richie see him smile, but Richie sees it anyway. His own smile widens.

+++

They walk in together, but not together-together. There’s still the neighbors on the street who might see, after all.

But once they’re in Bill’s house—and Ben’s the one who let them in, smiling brightly at the two of them and taking a moment to hug Richie like nothing ever happened, because he’s cool like that—Eddie reaches down and takes Richie’s hand and pulls him into the living room. And Richie feels like he would follow Eddie to the ends of the Earth, in this moment and any other.

When they enter, hand-in-hand, the Losers all began to whistle and cheer and make noise. Stan rolls his eyes from his spot next to Bill and mutters, “Finally,” but he’s got a smile on his face. Bev jumps up and throws her arms around them and kisses them both on the cheek with a smack of her sticky clear lip gloss.

“Oh, no, guys,” Richie starts when she lets go, “Eds and I aren’t together or anything. We’re just friends again.”

Eddie punches him with a, “Don’t call me that!”, that’s really just for show more than anything, and Bev rolls her eyes and Mike ignores him and stands up, coming over to slap him on the shoulder.

“Still a bit of a dumbass, I see,” he notes. Richie smiles.

“Old habits die hard.”

“Not too hard, hopefully,” Mike teases. Richie pushes him away, grinning.

Everyone settles down on the various couches and starts chatting, and someone puts on a movie, and eventually little Georgie comes down and snuggles in between Bill and Stan, because even though he’s starting to grow up—10 years old now!—he still wants to be close to his big brother. Richie heads to the kitchen, needing a minute to clear his head.

He’s so overwhelmed. So much has happened these past couple months—these past couple weeks—and he still kind of feels like he’s drowning, but it’s getting better, slowly. What with Eddie forgiving him, kissing him, and calling him his boyfriend, he thinks it’ll get even easier as time goes on. But he’s still unsure about a lot of things, mainly himself.

He announced himself as gay, or bisexual, yes. But he has no definitive evidence. And when he thinks about it, he knows that he’s liked girls in the past, but he’s not confident he’s ever liked girls sexually. There’s so many different things to factor in and consider, but he knows now that it’s okay if he takes his time. No one is rushing him. The people he loves will be there no matter what. Even if he pulls a wild card and decides he’s straight and liking Eddie is an anomaly. Which it kind of is, isn’t it, because Eddie himself is a bit of an anomaly; something you wouldn’t expect, a mess of contradictions and contingencies. But maybe all humans are like that, maybe that’s the human condition. Maybe it’s okay to not know, because the unknown is where the fun stuff happens anyway.

He’s contemplating his existence when Stan appears on the other side of the island. He raises an eyebrow at Richie’s frozen state, but doesn’t otherwise blink.

“Having a meltdown?” He asks, moving toward the fridge. Richie shakes his head and starts moving again, just tapping his fingers to keep his body occupied.

“Just thinking,” he admits.

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately, I hear.” Stan sets down some orange juice and gets two glasses from the cabinet.

“Guess I have a lot to think about.”

Stan hums. He’s a particular kind of person, Stan, very methodical and precise. He doesn’t like errors or ambivalence. If Richie had come to talk to Stan before, he’s pretty confident Stan would’ve gotten mad or frustrated with him because of Richie’s wishy-washy nature. But, then again, Stan’s also kind and forgiving, a tenderhearted boy that only wishes the best for those around him. He would’ve helped Richie figure everything out in about an hour, probably.

Maybe that’s why Richie was scared to go to Stan. He wasn’t ready to face himself. That and Stan probably would’ve made fun of him, to some degree.

He is now, though, he thinks, ready to face himself. He’s pretty sure he can take on the dragon or fight the beast or whatever the hell’s at the end of the trail.

Stan starts pouring out the juice into each cup, glancing up at Richie. “And did you figure it all out?”

Richie pauses. No, he hasn’t, actually, not completely. There’s still boxes unchecked, beds to look under. There’s still things he’s too afraid to ask himself. But he knows where he’s going now, and that’s a lot better than standing in the middle of a crossroads, not knowing which way is right and which way is wrong. There is no right or wrong, not here. There’s just a this way or a that way, and if Richie takes one path and it turns out that it doesn’t work for him, he can always find his way back and start over. He imagines he’ll do a lot of that, starting over, trying again.

Life’s funny that way.

“I think so,” he decides, because it’s the middle ground. He’s sure he’ll figure most of it out eventually, and what he doesn’t figure out can just be left unknown.

Not every riddle has to be solved. Some are meant to keep you guessing.

Stan smiles and finishes filling up the second cup.

“Good. I’m proud of you.”

Richie exhales a laugh, a smile on his face. “Everyone’s been saying that recently.”

“Maybe because it’s true, dingus.” Stan rolls his eyes and puts the juice back. Richie leans over to pick up one of the cups, assuming Stan’s made it for him. “That’s Bill’s,” Stan says, blandly, when he sees Richie try to take a sip. Richie huffs and sets the glass back down on the counter by Stan. Stan smiles at him and slides the cup back in his direction, teasing him just like he normally would. Because this _is_ normal and it’s okay.

He’ll have to keep reminding himself of that until he starts to feel it. But he’s sure his friends will be there to help.

They drink in silence for a moment, letting the weight of the world settle on their shoulders. Richie’s grateful for his friends, so stupidly grateful that a handful of losers and misfits wound up liking him enough to support him through all of his errors.

_These are forever friends,_ he realizes, though part of him already knew that. The kind of friends that he’ll still be talking to senior year, that he’ll hug at graduation, that he’ll call at least three times a week in college because he’s so lonely without them. The kind of friends that he’ll visit as much as he can when he’s an adult, that he’ll write to and send gifts on their birthdays, that he’ll be there for their weddings and the births of their children and their funerals. These are people that he’s grown up with, shared the darkest parts of himself, and instead of running away, they shared their darkest parts back. These are friends, and losers, and family.

And Richie’s _so_ grateful to have them.

“Thank you,” he says to Stan, not looking at him. He’s not crying, but he’s very emotional right now. He’s so proud of his friends, just for being who they are, and, apparently, they’re proud right back.

“Of course, Richie.”

And then Richie decides _fuck it,_ and sets down his juice and pulls Stan into a tight hug. Stan makes a little noise of annoyance, but Richie knows he doesn’t mean it, because he’s wrapping his arms around Richie and squeezing tightly.

Because Stan’s always been that way: the best.

+++

They rejoin the group in the living room, Stan taking his seat by Bill and Georgie on the loveseat, after having made another glass of orange juice, and Richie taking back his spot in between Eddie and Betsy. Ben and Bev have made it to the large armchair and are cuddling—Richie takes a moment to catch Bev’s eyes and make suggestive eyebrows, which she makes right back—and Mike’s squished on the end of couch, arm wrapped around Betsy, actually trying to watch _The Goonies_.

Eddie glances up at Richie as he sits down. Their knees knock together, but they just leave them there, pressed against each other.

“Everything okay?” he asks softly, so that the other Losers don’t hear it.

Richie looks down at Eddie.

Eddie. Beautiful and compassionate and a bit of an asshole Eddie. He’s been there for Richie since the beginning, since they first became friends. He’s been the person Richie’s gone to for everything for years. And, yeah, he then goes to Bill and Stan and Bev, and then Ben and Mike, but Eddie’s always been first. And he can’t explain it, the kind of gravitational pull Eddie has on him, like he’s just another satellite orbiting Eddie’s world. But it’s there, constantly present and persistent, and he can never shake it, and he doesn’t want to.

Eddie’s a mess, no doubt. Caught up by paranoia and germaphobia and fear of pretty much everything else, has total mommy issues, and can be a real dick when the situation arises, but he’s also sweet and so damn intelligent and he can match Richie anytime, just stand there and go toe-to-toe and trade insults and blows that don’t mean anything.

Even if Eddie didn’t like Richie, or Richie didn’t like Eddie in _that_ way, Richie is sure that he’d be pulled in by Eddie’s, well, everything. He’d be so enchanted that he wouldn’t even question it; that’s just the kind of person Eddie is. Strong—strong-willed—and loyal, bright as the sun, happiness personified. He’s beautiful, in every sense of the word, and Richie can’t look away. Not anymore.

“Yeah. It will be,” he replies finally. Eddie smiles at him and Richie can’t help himself. He leans down and kisses Eddie softly. He hears his friends start whistling and cheering, but all he can focus on is Eddie’s laugh against his lips.

+++

He goes home alone, but it’s okay, because he doesn’t really feel alone. His mom and dad are sitting in the living room, watching _Seinfeld_. They both look up as he enters, look at each other, and then turn their attention on him in tandem.

“How was your day, sweetie?” Maggie asks, crossing her arms over the back of the couch and resting her chin on her forearm.

“Anything exciting happen at school today?” Went adds.

Richie stares at them. He’s not sure which one of his friends has been keeping his parents up to date, but apparently he’s going to have to have a talk with somebody, if not everybody. It’s probably Bev, if he’s really thinking about it. His parents absolutely adore her. Well, they kind of adore everybody, but Bev the most—right under Eddie, obviously.

“I’m gay,” he blurts out. Maggie and Went blink. “Or bisexual, I’m still… Figuring that out. But Eddie’s my boyfriend. I’m pretty sure. And I got the whole “too much fun” thing figured out now, in case you were wondering.”

Went breaks first, smiling so wide that Richie’s kind of scared his face is gonna spilt open. Maggie follows right after, getting off the couch and running over to Richie with tears in her eyes.

“Oh, honey!” she coos, wrapping her arms around him. Richie buries his face in her dress, hoping that he doesn’t cry now either. He’s really gotta stop crying so much, it’s totally ruining his rep.

“We’re proud of you, son,” Went says, sounding a lot closer than he was a second ago. And then the grip around Richie gets tighter, so he assumes it’s a family hug now.

“I always knew you and Eddie were gonna work out,” Maggie tells him. “A mother just knows, you know.”

“Was I that obvious?” Richie asks, voice muffled by Maggie’s shoulder.

“To us, yeah,” Went admits. Maggie slaps at Went’s arm and Richie stifles a laugh. “I mean, no, not at all.”

Richie makes a move to pull back from the hug and his parents let him go. “Guess it was clear to everyone but me.”

“Yeah, the looks you and Eddie gave each other were nauseating,” Went jokes, and then realizes how it sounds. “I mean that, you know, because you guys were constantly looking at each other! And didn’t know how the other felt! Not that—”

Richie laughs. “It’s okay, Dad, I get it.”

Maggie shoots her husband a look before cupping Richie’s cheek in her hand. “All that matters is that you’ve figured it out now. And you know I always liked Eddie. He’d make a great son-in-law.”

Richie chuckles nervously. “Mom, it’s literally been, like, four hours.”

“Still. A mother just knows,” she assures him. Richie shakes his head. That’s something to think about for another day.

“Did you give him the mixtape though? Is that why he forgave you?” Went asks. Richie furrows his brows.

“How do you know about—who are your sources, anyway?”

“You were up all last night playing music and then you started talking and—” Maggie starts.

“Oh, God, you heard that?!”

“It was very sweet!” She reassures him. “I mean, had someone done something like that for me, I would’ve been very happy and definitely forgiven them.”

Richie puts his head in his hands, shaking his head to try to clear away the thought that his mom totally heard him speaking his most intimate and private thoughts, thoughts that were meant for Eddie and Richie alone.

“I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear anything. What? You were recording last night? I had no idea, that’s news to me,” she says helpfully. Richie laughs.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” He looks up. “But, seriously, who’s been feeding you guys information? Unless you’re mega eavesdropping, there’s no way you know about all this stuff.”

Maggie mimes zipping her lips, but Went shrugs. “We can’t disclose that information at this time. Just know our sources are reputable and plentiful.”

“Also, we’ll ground your ass if you mess things up with Eddie,” Maggie teases. Richie pretends to be offended.

“Choosing the boyfriend over your own son, eh?”

“No, it’s true, we totally will,” Went agrees.

“Et tu, Brute?”

His parents grin at him.

“C’mon, now, Richie, you know you’re our favorite son.” Maggie turns him around and slings an arm around his shoulders, steering him in the direction of the couch.

“I’m your only son!”

“The only one that counts,” Went adds.

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?”

“Language!” His parents both scold.

They all sit together, Richie squished in between his mom and his dad, yet never happier.

+++

A couple of days later, when everyone’s hanging out at Richie’s house, Eddie gets up from his seat and disappears without explanation. Richie looks around at the others for a clue, but they’re all wearing the same weird smile. Eddie comes back a minute later, hands behind his back.

“Richie,” he starts.

“Oh, God, what is it now?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a dick. We all just wanted to give you something. Call it an early Christmas present, if you want. But it’s from all of us.”

Eddie pulls his hands out and in his palms is a 1989 Walkman, exactly like the one Henry Bowers broke. Richie feels tears come to his eyes.

“Guys.” His voice catches as he looks up at his friends. Eddie’s the first to hug him, after setting the Walkman down. Then they all come together at once after that, most of them cooing at Richie’s emotional state.

“How the hell did you pay for this?” He asks from the center of their group hug. A couple people laugh.

“We all chipped in, but it’s pretty much everything we had and any spare money we could find,” Ben says.

“And your parents helped too,” Bev chirps. Richie tries to pinch her but Mike yelps in shock.

“Sorry! Trying to get Bev.” He reaches further and she laughs when he pinches her arm. “You’re such a snitch! I knew you were the mole!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about! You have no evidence!”

Richie tries to pinch her again, which results in him pinching Stan and both Stan and Eddie scolding him.

But, yeah, he’s pretty grateful for his friends.

+++

Richie’s laying in his bed, head where his feet are supposed to be, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the journey his life has taken recently. High school was supposed to be a breeze, and for freshman year it pretty much was, but these past few months have proven to be the most difficult and tasking time of his life. But he made it out, and the reward is so, _so_ great.

Eddie’s face is smushed into his neck, and he can feel light fingers tracing nonsensical shapes into his chest over his t-shirt, but it still feels like brands on his skin, even with the layer between. He rubs a hand up and down Eddie’s back lazily. Their feet are tangled together, so much so that Richie’s not sure where he begins and Eddie ends. _Heroes_ by David Bowie is playing in the background, and Richie thinks, _This is peace. This is what happiness feels like._

He presses a kiss to the crown of Eddie’s head, and it causes Eddie to look up at him. They smile at each other. They don’t often have soft moments like this. They’re both such livewires that they’re constantly moving or running or just go-go-going. But, occasionally, they’ll lay or sit down together and just exist and be happy. Richie likes the livewire moments, sure, but he likes these quiet moments too.

Well, really, he just likes spending time with Eddie. In any way he can.

“What are you thinking about?” Eddie asks, his hand that was on Richie’s chest coming up to run along Richie’s eyebrow. Richie closes his eyes, reveling in the touch.

“You,” he admits. “Me. Us.”

Eddie makes a little laughing noise, finger traveling down Richie’s nose, slowly tracing his features. “That’s an interesting topic.”

“Sure is. Lot to think about.”

“Uh-huh? Like what specifically?”

Like the way Eddie says his name, when he’s exasperated or happy or angry or full of some kind of emotion that Richie thinks might be love. Like the way Eddie leans into his touches or, if they’re not right next to each other, often goes to seek Richie out, seek out his contact. Like the way he sighs into their kisses, absolutely content. Like the way he wears who he is on his sleeve with pride, because no matter how afraid he is, he knows who he is and he won’t let anyone take that away from him. Like the way his eyes always find Richie’s, even when they’re across the room, like he can’t let Richie out of his sight, like he doesn’t want to. Like the way Richie catches Eddie staring at him, this look on his face that Richie knows resembles the look he often wears when staring at Eddie.

Like the way Richie’s totally in love with Eddie.

Like the way Richie’s pretty sure Eddie loves him too.

“Just about how cute you are,” Richie teases, because he’s not sure how to tell all of that to Eddie without sounding absolutely crazy. He opens his eyes, sits up a bit, and pinches Eddie’s cheek. “Cute, cute, cute!”

Eddie slaps his hand away and Richie laughs, laying back down. Eddie’s hand goes back to his chest.

“I’ve been thinking about us, too,” Eddie says. The words sound like some kind of break-up, but, for some reason, Richie just automatically knows that that’s not what Eddie’s going for. Because he can read Eddie like that, always been able to. Well, mostly.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Eddie pauses for a moment. “I’m happy.”

Richie’s heart melts. “Happy?”

“Yeah, really happy.”

Richie nods, because he’s not sure how to respond to that.

“I’m glad,” he says finally. “You deserve to be happy.”

“You do, too, Rich.”

Richie looks down at Eddie and sees him looking right back. He smiles.

“I am, Eds. I really am.”

Eddie reaches up, hand cupping the side of Richie’s face, and he kisses him. Richie brings his free hand up around the back of Eddie’s head, holding him in place. David Bowie fades out in the background, and Richie’s message starts.

They kiss until the recording ends, and then Eddie pulls back and knocks his nose against Richie’s.

“I love you too, Richie,” he says, like it’s simple.

And it is.

“I love you, Eds,” Richie whispers, and pulls him back in.

+++

_Hey, Eddie, it’s Richie. Obviously. I don’t know why I said that. But, um, I just wanted to say that this mixtape is for you. It’s a little bit of you and a little bit of me and maybe a little bit of the both of us, too. It’s everything I feel for you, the stuff I’m too chickenshit to put into actual words. I don’t know when it started, but Halloween’s when I finally pieced most of it together. And then the bridge happened and I thought I could do it. But I got scared—again—and I didn’t say anything, or, rather, I said the wrong things and I hurt you. And I’m sorry. I never want to hurt you, or see you in pain, or any of that. Those feelings scared me, so I locked everything away and shut down and took my pain out on you, which was totally unfair and out of line. I guess I totally_ In Between Days _’d you. Because, the thing is, Eds, is that I like you. A lot. So much that it actually scares me. And I’m terrified of what might happen—you know that the world is a cruel and unforgiving place—but then I see you and… You make me not want to be scared. You make me want to be proud. I think I’m in love with you, Eddie Kaspbrak. And—ha—fuck, that’s hard to say. But I totally love you, I think I always have. And I don’t expect you to love me back or anything, I don’t even expect you to forgive me. But if you can listen to this, and know that I love you, know that you’re so damn capable of being loved, and know that I want you to be happy more than I’ve ever wanted anything, then that would be enough. …Wow, I didn’t mean to get that sappy. But you get the idea. So, yeah, what you make me feel, and what you make the people around you feel, is happiness and excitement and love. I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> as you are:  
> elton's song - elton john  
> miss you - the rolling stones  
> in between days - the cure  
> the goonies 'r' good enough - cyndi lauper  
> should i stay or should i go - the clash  
> i think we're alone now - tiffany  
> come as you are - nirvana  
> 9 to 5 - dolly parton  
> come on eileen - dexys midnight runners  
> don't you (forget about me) - simple minds  
> i want to break free - queen  
> sweet dreams (are made of this) - eurythmics  
> africa - toto  
> take on me - a-ha  
> lovesong - the cure  
> starman - david bowie  
> never say goodbye - bon jovi  
> i feel the earth move - carole king  
> kiss - prince & the revolution  
> smells like teen spirit - nirvana  
> just like heaven - the cure  
> holding out for a hero - bonnie tyler  
> space oddity - david bowie  
> rocket man (i think it's going to be a long time) - elton john  
> let's hear it for the boy - deniece williams  
> we didn't start the fire - billy joel  
> everybody wants to rule the world - tears for fears  
> there is a light that never goes out - the smiths  
> heroes - david bowie
> 
> thank you all again for reading and liking and commenting and all that fun stuff! i had a blast writing and creating this and listening to all the music, so i hope you all enjoy it as well! <33
> 
> also, i'd be more than happy to discuss and dissect literally any part of this story with you guys so please, come chat with me!
> 
> tumblr: provokiing.tumblr.com


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